The Green Flash
by Marie Turtle
Summary: Billy is a convict serving a 10-year banishment sentence under an assumed name. Abigail arrives on the arm of a well-intentioned, if deeply naive, minister on a mission to spread the Reformation to the Crown's most derelict residents. They shared a connection once years before that has followed them all the way to Camp Jackson, just far enough to make a mess.
1. Chapter 1

_Abigail fell to her hands and knees, soaking herself in the rancid water slowly filling her cabin. More accurately, her cell. The ship groaned, cracked, and rolled against the thundering booms echoing all around. Abigail tried to sort out the sounds: pistols and rifles popped, men yelled and cried out, and the bloody ship never stopped rocking and rumbling._

 _Even with fresh seawater flooding in, the water currently immersing her stank of men's filth. The stench and the rocking and the overwhelming noise were all too much. Her stomach clenched with a sharp pain before she retched right where she was. It didn't help._

 _She lifted her tired eyes to the door, but it wouldn't focus. Her vision blurred and her mind was a fog of pain and disgust. Until today, every time she started to feel better, one of the reeking pirates would barge into the cell and force another cup of tea down her throat. Abigail knew it must have been opium, and for the life of her she couldn't understand why anyone would voluntarily do this to themselves._

 _Her hand reached out, grasping blindly until her fingers made contact with wood. With a few more scrambling reaches, she got hold of the door handle and pulled herself up. Standing did not help the fog in her mind. The room spun wildly, made all the worse by the natural rocking of the ship._

 _The door fell from her grasp without warning, and she found herself back in the deepening rotten seawater, half out of the cabin now. How had she managed that? It was locked from the outside at all times. Before she could puzzle it out, hands grabbed her by the back of her dress and her hair, hauling her to her feet. The man's breath was hot and foul on her face. Her eyes focused just long enough to see a wet mouth full of yellowed, rotten, or just missing teeth. Her stomach cramped again, but there was nothing but bile. She coughed and gagged as it stuck in her throat. The man shouted something and released her. She crashed in a heap against barrels and crates._

 _Booted and bare feet pounded past her, kicking up that awful water into her face, but blessedly ignoring her. A dull pain in her hip joined the throbbing in her head. She slowly realized her vision was clearing, but the ship's hold was filling with smoke. She had to get her feet under her and get out of this death trap, but her world wouldn't stay still long enough. She pulled with all her might, weakened as she was, but was only standing for a moment before a hatch blew open in an explosion of wood shrapnel. Abigail tumbled back, falling between a stack of crates._

 _Boots thumped down the ladderwell with a chorus of shouted commands. Abigail pulled her feet in and tried to make herself as small as possible in her meager hiding place. Her head hit the wood of the bulkhead and Abigail felt her eyes crossing. This was simply too much. Her stomach roiled and the smoke was burning down her nostrils and throat, which already felt raw from vomit._

 _Men ran past her without stopping and her shoulders sagged with relief, until a shadow paused, then turned to face her._

 _The single largest man Abigail had ever seen stood before her, naked from the waist up and brandishing a wicked-looking sword. His skin was crisscrossed with black stripes of ash or dirt, Abigail couldn't say. Even his face was smeared with the stuff, giving him the aura of a wild animal._

 _His face knitted in confusion. He said something, but there was too much noise in her ears. He slid the sword back into the belt at his waist._

 _"Get Gates," he barked to another pirate. That much she caught. He turned back to her, and started speaking again, but his voice was too low. He held his hands out, palm up, as he sank to a low squat. Abigail shrank away as best she could. His massive hands matched the rest of him - entirely too large, with leather wraps at one wrist, to match the mess of leather and beaded necklaces at his throat. Only pirates dressed themselves in such a manner. This was not the Royal Navy rescue she'd been praying for._

 _He got incrementally closer, hands still held out to her. Abigail felt herself shaking, until his eyes came in focus through the smoke and haze. She stilled as she focused on eyes bluer and clearer than anything she'd seen since being tossed in the hold of this awful ship._

 _"Easy, easy," his voice was rumbling gently as he worked his way closer. "I'm not gonna hurt you."_

 _He stopped moving forward and simply held out his hands, as if he was approaching a frightened deer. She tried to bring her hand up, but she was weaker than she realized. He must have seen it because in the next moment, his hand encompassed hers, and then the other found its way to her back, pulling her not to her feet, but straight up into his arms._

 _She must have turned green - the sudden axis-tilt didn't do her stomach any favors - because he frowned and apologized. Or perhaps he was apologizing because of the inappropriate contact, though she didn't think pirates cared much. She tried to push away from him, but his arms and chest were like an iron trap._

 _"Easy," he murmured again. "You're safe now." She sniffled and looked up to find him watching her with those bright eyes, made all the brighter against the black soot streaking his face. "You'll be okay."_

 _Abigail gave up the exhausting effort of trying to put space between herself and him. Her muscles quit and she found herself resting her cheek against the warm skin of his chest. One of the necklaces featured a bright gold gem, like a cat's eye, twinkling and watching her. The great expanse under her let out a measured breath and then they were moving again._

 _With the help of one of his men, the pirate carried Abigail out of the hold and up into the bright daylight._

* * *

Abigail closed her book and frowned at the tidy garden outside. The window seat lost its comfort at least an hour ago. The sun had fallen too far to provide decent light for reading. She turned away from the window and her frown deepened. Supper would be called soon. It was an increasingly tense and silent affair.

Her generous hosts were growing impatient, and less generous. Their daughter was in the middle of her debut season, and they were running out of euphemisms for Abigail's situation. More than one family had already quietly introduced their sons to other eligible young ladies. Teas were canceled, plans postponed for a vaguely-defined later date.

Abigail was years past her majority and, according to the latest news from her solicitor, rapidly running out of money with which to pay her generous hosts. When she first arrived, they'd made introductions on her behalf with a short series of increasingly detestable bachelors. Then they stopped making inquiries, and the gentlemen stopped coming by the house. Abigail hadn't left the grounds in months.

Something had to break, but Abigail couldn't for the life of her imagine what. The crown had taken all of her father's investments and properties after an investigation into what was being called "the Charles Town debacle." The Milton family in Philadelphia represented the last of her distant relatives who would so much as acknowledge her.

Where would she go? Surely, she couldn't marry. The last suitor who'd called on her was 72 years old. Seventy-two. The one before that had shown up reeking of alcohol and couldn't keep his gaze above Abigail's neck for more than a moment before drifting lower again.

As she sat on her uncomfortable perch by the window, Abigail went over each so-called suitor again. Had she been too harsh? Facing poverty, what would she be willing to compromise on? Was there one who might not look so bad in this new light?

Imagining being wed to any of them made her stomach roil. She missed her father more and more these days. It was his fault she was in this situation, but he would know exactly what to do. He would make the decision for her, and that would be the end of that. She missed the comfort of being guided along the road of her life.

This was all terribly lonely.

She stood and stretched. She'd been on that seat since afternoon tea and everything felt stiff. Her entire body was sore, which made her cringe. Even with daily walks through the gardens, this was the most sedentary she'd ever been in her life, except for those weeks locked in a cabin on a pirate ship.

Her quiet journey back to her room always followed the same route. Abigail nodded and smiled at the servants, but none of them ever slowed or stopped. They gave her a gentle nod in acknowledgment and kept on about their work. No one ever spoke to her anymore. Anna, the Milton's sixteen-year-old daughter, barely deigned to ask her to pass the salt at dinner.

Abigail wrote letters every day, then burned them. When Mrs. Milton saw her with a new journal, the woman had launched into a tirade that ended with Abigail quietly tucking the empty book onto a bookshelf and never picking it up again. She wrote of the same things over and over, perhaps because burning them canceled out the satisfaction of writing them in the first place. She wrote about how she knew she should long for the sprawling gardens and open lands of her family's former estate, how Philadelphia was too crowded, too loud, but none of that was what bothered her. She mourned the man she'd always thought her father was before the investigation and his attempt to ship her off into a hermitage. She mourned the lost opportunity to find that man again.

To her shame, she did not mourn him as he was. Her letters spoke of betrayal, lies, doubt. How could a band of pirates show more integrity than he had? How could she miss the endless blue of the ocean and the smiling faces of the men who sacked her city at all, let alone more than her own family?

Low voices trickled from the library. As she got closer, Abigail slowed, catching bits and pieces, until she reached the door. She almost took another step, which would reveal her to anyone sitting in the cavernous room, but then she heard her name in a hushed whisper. She stayed just out of sight from the open door, unsure whether to alert her hosts that she could hear them, or continue eavesdropping.

"She'll never be able to pay this," Mrs. Milton said. "Is he sure?"

"Every penny," Mr. Milton replied. "She was just six months shy of her majority. If her solicitor had waited, she wouldn't be in this position, but what can we do? The Crown wants their money back."

Abigail heard Mrs. Milton's deep sigh, creaking of a chair, and the delicate tinkling of a china teacup on its saucer. "She won't agree to this. She practically spat at the only gentlemen who responded to our inquiries."

"Well, it's this, or she can pay off her debt in prison like everyone else." Even Mrs. Milton gasped at her husband's cavalier response. "What? We're not going to pay for it. We've done more than enough. We'll be lucky if we ever get Anna out of the house thanks to her."

She couldn't hear anymore. Abigail clutched the book to her chest as if it might quell the thumping in her heart. She backed up slowly, as quietly as she could, until she was out of earshot, and then she ran the rest of the way to her room.

Abigail Ashe had worn out her welcome.

* * *

The whisky was a murky amber in his dirty mug. It tasted like watered-down piss. Billy poured the rest of the contents of his bottle into the mug and kept drinking. His knee throbbed, a dull ache that kept him anchored when all he wanted was to drift into that pleasant place where the world could gently rock him to sleep.

The tavern was alive with yelling, music, gambling. The working girls diligently tried their hands with him, no matter how many times he grunted and shook his head into his cup. The noise made his head throb in tune with his knee, but the silence of a rented room was intolerable. His eyes drifted to a table at the other end of the tavern. Men were throwing dice, jeering and collecting coins from each other. He considered joining the game, but his pockets were nearly bare. It was dice or another bottle, and the bottle was a sure bet.

Of course, it wouldn't help him pay off the dock master who'd helped him fence a crate or two of tobacco. Or the customs officer who never asked for his name. Or the bookmakers who'd fronted him money for games, money he hadn't won back.

Sometimes he thought it'd be easier to just let Silver find him and finish it. He was just so fucking tired. He couldn't stay in one place too long lest anyone recognize him. The English warrant for him had a cash prize only slightly bigger than the payment Silver was offering.

A drunk collided with his table, knocking the now empty bottle and sending it to the floor. Billy sneered and reared away from the table, putting his cup back to his lips. All greasy hair and soiled clothes, the man struggled to right himself, pushing away from the table and making a bigger mess. Then he slowed and narrowed his hazy gray eyes.

"I know you?" he slurred and raised a dirty, unsteady finger at Billy.

Billy continued his drink. He didn't let his eyes wander to the man or betray any reaction. He did recognize him from somewhere; some pirate who survived Nassau, perhaps. He set his drink down and shrugged. "Don't think so."

"No," the man shook his shaggy head and pressed forward. "I do know you. From…from the…from-"

Billy stood so sharply he nearly knocked the table over, shouldered past the man and stomped out of the tavern without a backward glance at any of the offended patrons. Outside, the cool dockside air should have helped clear his head. It didn't. It still swam, alternating between nauseating dizziness and a throbbing headache.

His feet shuffled along the road until they were shuffling down the unmistakable feel of a wooden pier. He was surrounded by the familiar sounds of sailors at their leisure, boats rocking in the gentle, sheltered water. He wrinkled his nose and groaned, turning away lest he wander right off the dock into the water in his current state. He kept walking along the harbor side, searching for a suitable place to collapse.

The night was slowly becoming more clear, urging him to find some semi-dry spot between old crates and barrels all the faster. If he didn't pass out soon, he would become sicker. Sweat was already beading down his neck despite the chilly evening air. A shout rose up in the distance, but Billy ignored it.

Billy ignored the louder chorus of shouting right up until a small, malnourished body collided with his legs and crumpled backward to the street. Billy stalled and blinked, forcing his eyes to focus on the dirty urchin pushing back to his feet. Still confused and unsteady, Billy reached a hand out and took the boy by his shoulder, muttering, "What in the he-"

"Let me go!" the boy cried, struggling uselessly to free himself from Billy's grip. He shot a wide-eyed look over his shoulder, where a crew of men were thundering their direction.

"Stop him!" "You're coming with us, you little shit!"

A pressgang. Billy's eyes narrowed and he released the boy, who scrambled away into the night. The gang was just steps away from bypassing Billy altogether, but, in an act of pure muscle memory because God knew Billy was far too drunk to have decent control over his own body, his arm shot out and he caught the front man by his collar, just below his neck. The man nearly came off his feet and would have fallen but for the iron grip he now found himself in. He coughed, gagged, and swung uselessly at the beast holding him, but Billy only curled his lip. "That one's not yours."

The men circled him, no longer interested in their lost quarry. The leader stepped forward, seething. "You stopped a legal 'cruitment. You're gonna-"

Billy didn't let him finish. He dropped the other man and took a swing. The last thing he felt before darkness swallowed him whole, was the satisfying crack of his fist landing on a man's jaw.

Three days later, Billy flexed his hands and winced. The manacles were rubbing his wrists raw. The stone wall of his cell was cold and dug into his back. His stomach rumbled and his empty plate - a single piece of stale bread - mocked him.

He shared his cell with four other men, in various states of intoxication, for a variety of petty crimes. He hadn't bothered to speak to them and the only one interested in talking gave up 2 days ago after another cellmate cracked him with an open-palmed slap. Billy figured he was in for the noose. Given his appearance, physical similarity to a wanted pirate and traitor to England, and the nature of beating at least one member of a pressgang nearly to death, the noose seemed like the most logical conclusion. He refused to speak with a solicitor, then sneered at the priest who came to absolve his sins.

Billy Bones was bound for hell, and no amount of confessing would ever change that. Billy chuckled to himself. Every god-awful crime he'd committed in his life, and he'd finally face justice for helping a boy escape the fate that started Billy on this road in the first place.

Seems about right, he sighed and let his head fall back against the cool stone. He knew more than anyone else just how much he'd done to deserve death. Silver's going to be furious that someone else killed me. He snickered again. Oh yes, he deserved this and more.

Yet, when they fished the letter of pardon from his pocket - a real, valid letter he'd fished out of the pocket of a dead man, coincidentally also named William - he hadn't corrected them. He should have. He should have shouted that his true name was Manderly, and he was the pirate known as Billy Bones: the architect of the Nassau resistance, murderer of countless English citizens, traitor to the crown and his own cause over and over again. But he didn't. He remained silent, speaking to no one. They probably wouldn't even believe him. Billy Bones was dead by all accounts. He died when Woodes Rogers chased Captain Flint to Skeleton Island. Now Billy Bones was just a story. It was a story some sailors adopted for myriad reasons, but usually in a misguided attempt to impress each other. If every man who called himself Billy Bones was really Billy Bones, Billy would have quite the brotherhood.

He laughed again, a dry, cracking, mirthless thing. The other men in the cell didn't speak, but two of them exchanged a dark look.

The outer door to the row of cells opened with the sharp protest of iron hinges in need of oiling. The gaoler lead two unfamiliar men down the dark hallway. As they went, the men exchanged comments with the gaoler. They paused in front of Billy's shared cell. No one looked up.

"Those two," the center man said, waving his finger between Billy and the second biggest man in the cell.

"That one's violent." The goaler knocked his wooden club against the bars, eliciting a small, startled jump from almost everyone. "He ain't been sentenced yet, but he's bound for the gallows."

The two unfamiliar men exchanged quiet words before the man in a dark suit and pristine white wig sighed. "You're sure?"

The center man grunted. "Aye, the boss don't care for nothing 'cept a strong back."

"I'll speak to the judge," the clean man addressed the gaoler, who huffed his disapproval but didn't argue. The trio moved on to finish their selection of "strong backs."

One week later, instead of facing his well-earned execution, Billy found himself as he had the first time he was on a ship: chained in the hold and heading west across the Atlantic.

In the darkness, Billy laughed.


	2. Chapter 2

"Please come down, Abigail."

Abigail sat on the edge of the calico upholstered bench at the foot of her bed, wringing her hands and stoutly refusing to stand and look Mrs. Milton in the eye.

"He's downstairs talking to my husband," Mrs. Milton continued. "Really, Abigail, he's a fine gentleman. You may never get a better another opportunity like this."

She was right, of course, and Abigail knew it. That's why she wore the nicest dress she had left. Everything else had been sold. It was plain, cornsilk blue muslin, modest enough for any occasion but finely cut enough to suit a formal dinner. Her hair hung mostly loose around her shoulders, the front pieces pinned back to better frame her face. It might be the last time she could wear it like this.

"For the love of God, Abigail," Mrs. Milton's voice broke, "we cannot pay your debt against the crown and we will not be able to secure a good marriage for our daughter if you remain under our roof." She swallowed a sharp breath. Abigail could only stare at the older woman, graying around her edges and more tired than Abigail had ever seen her. When Abigail nodded and stood, Mrs. Milton released her breath in a great gasp. "Good, good," she murmured, ushering Abigail out of the room to meet her fate.

Downstairs, Abigail straightened her spine and followed her matron into the parlor, where a man she hadn't expected stood in quiet conversation with Mr. Milton. He was of average height, a bit soft around the middle and his shoulders sloped where a stronger man's would be square. He held his pale hands behind his back, clad in head-to-toe somber black. A matching, round-brimmed hat lay primly on one of the brocade seats. When he turned at the women's entrance, Abigail was greeted by a soft round face, cheeks flushed from either the warmth of the room or maybe the same anxiety she felt. Round spectacles obscured his eyes, but his face held a genuine smile.

Something akin to relief washed through Abigail in that moment. It was warm and soothing. It guided her feet forward where so many times before she had tried to walk away. He took her hand - his was as soft as she'd imagined - and they made introductions, but Abigail's mind swirled with hope, possibility, and confusion. They made polite, unobtrusive talk with Mr. and Mrs. Milton until the couple suggested that Abigail show the man around their confined garden.

They walked side by side in silence before the man - a Mr. Albert Locke, minister - cleared his throat. "You must be wondering what brings me to seek your company today, Miss Ashe."

Abigail dropped her hand from one of the roses and hummed an affirmative. Even in the fresh air, she couldn't quite find her voice. Where the sun shone, they were both bathed in warmth.

"One of Mrs. Milton's letters found its way to my cousin," Albert went on. His voice was like the rest of him, gentle. "He was…not inclined to reply, but I took a further interest. I'm ashamed to say, I researched you rather thoroughly."

"And you still came?" Abigail stopped walking, cocking her head at him in question.

Albert dipped a nod and had the good graces to blush. "I found your words - what had been published, at least - to be quite ardent."

"So did the jury that condemned my father," Abigail said, immediately wishing she hadn't.

Albert stopped and his face knitted up in pain so tangible Abigail felt an instinct to comfort him. "I'm so sorry, Miss Ashe. That was thoughtless, and not what I meant. It's just," he pulled his hat off his head and turned the brim in his hands, "your words echoed my own sentiments, and so beautifully. I felt that perhaps you were a kindred spirit."

Words failed her. Abigail studied him, awash in surprise and confusion. When his face fell - he must have believed she would reject him - Abigail reached out to still his hands, still nervously turning and bending the brim of his hat. "I'm sorry, Mr. Locke, it's just that I'm not sure anyone has spared a kind word to me about my journal." Propriety returned and she dropped his hands. "I'm afraid you give me too much credit. I was rather naive, and besotted by the men who treated me with common courtesy after I had suffered so much."

"If it was naivete, then I believe we are still kindred spirits." He chuckled nervously, and Abigail joined him. "I found so few people in London who shared my views. It was difficult to keep a congregation, so I came here in search of the tolerance and freedom so many have written about. I want to share the message that all are equal in the eyes of God. All can find redemption in His grace."

"I haven't been fortunate enough to find many more approving of that message here." Abigail's voice fell and she turned her attention back to the brightly colored roses.

Albert moved quietly next to her, joining her inspection of the blooms. "I have secured a position spreading the word for a new settlement. It's one of the furthest reaches of the English empire." He paused and returned his gaze to her, smiling playfully. "Perhaps all the way out there, people will have no choice but to listen."

Abigail giggled. "So, that's your plan? Corner them in the frontier and establish yourself as the only Christian minister so they have to listen?"

"That's the idea," Albert conceded with a bright grin. He wasn't handsome, but his shy happiness was infectious. She felt lighter than she had in weeks, maybe longer. Albert took a deep breath and tried to put on a more serious face, but his lips were still turned up. "I know this is highly unconventional, but I find myself pressed for time. My arrangements are in place and I will be on my way to the western border of the Carolinas before the end of the month. Miss Ashe, Abigail, I would very much like a partner in my adventure."

Her heart fluttered - an adventure! A fresh start far from the society that rejected her, and with a man who seemed genuinely kind. But the reality rushed in to smother the little spark of hope. "Mr. Locke, I appreciate the suggestion, but I don't think I would be a suitable partner. I am thoroughly soiled, at least in the eyes of anyone who has heard of me, and I am in impressive financial straights at the moment. I would not make a very good minister's wife."

Albert nodded and folded his hands behind his back. "I thought you might say that. Would you like to join me for tea? I can explain the particulars. If you are still interested and don't find me entirely detestable, perhaps I could call on you again tomorrow?"

Abigail felt a warm smile lighting up her face. She took the arm Albert offered. "I think that sounds reasonable, Mr. Locke."

Arm-in-arm, they continued their quiet stroll around the garden, and step-by-step, Abigail began to believe her life might not be over, after all.

* * *

 _Abigail laughed into the mug of warm, sweet liquid Captain Flint offered her. By this time tomorrow, she'd be back on dry land, in the arms of her father. She felt a touch sad about that._

 _Over the years of separation, her father was little more than a dim memory from childhood and increasingly distant and cold letters. Life on the Siren was vibrant and real. She was surrounded by men condemned by her father, but they were kind. Joji gave her a tiny wooden carving of a dolphin she'd secreted away among the small case of things she was rapidly acquiring on this ship. Mr. Gates took time to answer her questions, and no matter how silly she knew the questions were, he never lost patience with her. She had become Mr. Silver's chosen taste-tester, to the cheers of the crew who enjoyed the improvement in their meals. Captain Flint had furnished her with a small selection of dresses, all a touch too large for her but her own garments were beyond repair, and a journal. "My reading material isn't quite appropriate for a young lady, but I thought perhaps you'd enjoy writing."_

 _She did enjoy writing. She wrote about everything she saw on the ship, her observations of the men, her fears about what faced her in the American colonies, and the handsome blond giant who was never far from sight. Neither Captain Flint nor Billy would admit it to her, but the captain had undoubtedly assigned his quartermaster to look out for her. She wasn't ready to write about what had happened to her before her rescue, nor talk about it, but Billy was always there. He was there when she wandered the deck at night, still too frightened by a closed cabin door to comfortably sleep. He showed her - in a condensed, simplified manner - how they navigated by the stars. He answered her questions as readily as Mr. Gates, but he looked at her longer. His eyes lingered a moment too long before he'd look away, ducking out of sight before she could remark about the pink tinge around his ears._

 _This evening he was sitting across from her, laughing and cheering at the music and dancing. Abigail set her mug down to clap along with the stomping feet and drums. With a mandolin, an assortment of pipes, and the drumming tattoo of boots on the deck, they nearly formed a complete band. Against the weathered wood of the ship, the salty breeze and rhythmic clapping of waves, their little party was a cheery affair of the sort Abigail had never experienced. It pained her to think she might never experience it again._

 _A hand presented itself before her, followed by Silver's infectious grin. He waggled his eyebrows at her, so she took one more sip of her panch, set it down and accepted his hand, to the cheers of the crew. He spun her into a fast dance around the tight space of the open deck. It didn't take much between the spinning, exertion, and half a mug she'd already drank, to leave her too dizzy to continue. The men protested for about ten seconds before another pair jumped up to fill the space with a stomping jig. Silver tried to guide her back to the seat she'd abandoned, but she waved him off._

 _Flint offered her drink up to her. She took it, gulping it down in a decidedly un-ladylike fashion. Only when she lowered the mug, still gasping for breath, did she notice that Billy was no longer present._

 _"He had to check the lines," Flint answered her question before she asked. His face was passive, but his eyes twinkled at her in the golden lamplight. Abigail recalled writing in her journal that underneath his fearsome exterior and beyond his reputation, James Flint was the least intimidating pirate she'd encountered thus far in her high seas adventure. She giggled into her cup, remembering describing him as a grumbling reddish bear, more growl than bite. "You like him." Flint raised a brow and caught her open-mouthed stare, and laughed. "He likes you, and that's saying something. I don't think I've ever seen him sit down and have a drink with everyone for this." He gestured to the still-dancing and now singing crewmen. "He's all business, usually. Oh, don't look so shocked. In another life, you two might have been peers."_

 _Abigail scooted onto the bench next to him, blissfully unconscious of her proximity to him._

 _Flint snorted a laugh at her upturned face, so earnest and eager to learn more. "His parents made sure he was educated. He grew up in Kent, probably not far from you." Abigail was inching closer, enraptured. The music, singing, and laughing faded in her periphery. "His parents were agitators, religious and political sort. He was snatched right off the docks handing out anti-impressment books. I suppose they thought it was funny. By the time I found him, he was half-starved, half-wild from their treatment. I helped him hunt down the men who took him. He's been with me ever since."_

 _Abigail hung on every word. "He didn't want to go home?"_

 _"No," Flint shook his head slowly, looking out over his men. "There are some things you don't come back from. I imagine he didn't feel he had a place in his family home anymore."_

 _With a terse excuse, he left Abigail to mull over Billy's choice to stay at sea. The moisture of the wood under her skirts was seeping steadily to her skin. She hadn't been fully dry since leaving England, but on the Siren she didn't mind. Her hair had begun to curl wildly and her time on the deck was restoring her color. She'd come to find the regular sprays and touches of saltwater refreshing, even replenishing. There were more stars by half than she ever saw back home. Even the constant motion of the ship - a thing that had been so nauseating on Lowe's ship - was soothing. The endless blue in all directions offered endless opportunity._

 _Were she in Billy's shoes, she might not want to go home either. But she was definitely not in Billy's shoes. Not in the slightest. She had nothing to fear by returning to her family and civilized society._

 _By midnight, long after the party disbursed and she was to have gone to bed, thoughts of home kept her tossing and turning. Would she be welcomed back? Her father's letters were distant and impersonal, and they came less and less frequently over the years. She'd certainly never heard of a woman being abducted who wasn't ruined. They always disappeared after their ransoms were paid. Would she be just as unwelcome as a young man who joined with pirates against the King's Navy, no matter how justified?_

 _She had one last goal to accomplish before leaving the Siren, and since she couldn't sleep and this was her last night, Abigail resolved that she was out of excuses. She dug into the traveling case Captain Flint gave her, fished out the boy's trousers she'd found, and steeled her resolve._

 _Ten minutes later, she was on deck. The sparse night crew either took no notice of her, or had been instructed to make no comment about any of her nightly wanderings. Tonight, however, was a little different. In boys trousers, tied at her waist by a pretty floral scarf, with only her chemise and stays under a boy's loose linen shirt, Abigail was afraid she was downright scandalous. Her bare feet felt every splinter in the deck. The pirates made walking around barefoot look so easy, but hers were too pampered._

 _The wind blew her loosely braided hair off her face. She fisted her hands and strode resolutely forward, eyes on her destination. She didn't notice Billy leaning against the quarterdeck rail, waiting for her. She didn't notice his double-take, or the way his mouth fell open when he saw her pale feet, or the length of time his eyes lingered on her form glowing on the nearly black deck like a little flame._

 _She stopped at the main mast and craned her neck to look up. The mess of lines and sails looked even more imposing in the dark._

 _A quiet clearing of a throat sent her jumping nearly out of her skin. Billy materialized next to her silently - a feat for a man of his size. He followed her eyes up the mast and crossed his arms, frowning. Abigail forced herself to look away. It really was unseemly to be that large._

 _"What exactly are you planning on doing?"_

 _Abigail put her hands to her hips. "I want to go up there."_

 _"Up there?" Billy pointed a finger straight up. "No, no," he shook his head. "Flint'll kill me."_

 _She narrowed her eyes at him. "Well, I want to. And…and I don't think you can stop me." She jutted her chin out and put on her best air of conviction._

 _Billy laughed. He snorted, actually, and grinned at her. "You don't think I can stop you?" She sputtered, but he went on. "What were you going to do, climb up there by yourself? You know there's a watch in the nest?" She deflated by a measure and he took her by the elbow, gently but with purpose. "C'mon, you can take the air up on the-"_

 _"No!" She wrenched out of his grip. His eyes widened and his hands dropped to his sides, uncertain with himself. "I just…I'll never get another chance. Please?"_

 _Abigail was many things, probably too naive, but she wasn't that naive. She let her eyes glass over, looking up at him under her lashes and pursing her lips into a pout, punctuated by worrying at her bottom lip. Yes, this look had worked for her more than once, and Billy was no exception. His eyes flickered to her lips and he gulped._

 _He was left in indecision. He looked between her and the mast, then back to her, and groaned, scrubbing his hand across his face. He turned toward the stern and nodded to himself. "One condition," he paused when her face brightened, "two. No, three. You don't say a word about this, because Flint will have me keelhauled. We'll go to the mizzen." He held out his hand to her. She slipped hers into it and let him lead her._

 _"The mizzen?"_

 _"It's shorter, and there's not anyone in that nest."_

 _"Shorter." It wasn't a question, just a grumbled comment._

 _"Yes, shorter." He stopped as they came to the base of the mast. Up close, she didn't think it looked much shorter. "You climb with me. You may have noticed, but we don't do with propriety much here. I'm gonna have to…help you."_

 _Abigail blinked up at him. There had to be some meaning here she was missing. He looked so serious. She wasn't sure, but she gamely nodded anyway. "Of course."_

 _His lips pressed into a tight line. "Right." He gestured for her to stand in front of him, where their climb would start. "Not one word," he repeated before one arm reached over her head and his other hand found her waist._

 _Oh. That would explain his concern about propriety. She spent the rest of the climb wavering between exhilaration at their increasing distance from the deck and a stuttering heart whenever his hand tightened on her as the mast rocked back and forth, or when the expanse of his chest brushed her back, fully encircling her. Her arms ached, and her feet slipped more than once, but she couldn't have fallen even if she just let go and jumped. When he let her climb a measure before following, his nose and lips came dangerously close to her hair, her cheek. When she slowed or paused, he would murmur a quiet instruction on where to reach next._

 _He guided her into the confines of the nest before joining her. The platform was tiny and the thin wooden railing didn't do much but give her something to hold onto. At this height, each gentle rocking of the ship was a great arcing sweep. The wind blew harder, but it was quieter. The noise of the living wood and sail was all beneath them. Billy took up a significant amount of space, and trying to give her polite distance was next to impossible._

 _The stars were even brighter up here. She could nearly reach out and touch them. A thin line of lights glowed on the distant horizon._

 _"Charles Town," he answered her question before she asked._

 _Her shoulders slumped. She leaned her cheek against the small rail and sighed. "Already?"_

 _His thigh brushed against hers and he crossed his arms lazily over the railing, having to slouch just to rest his chin. He was still sitting more than a head taller than her. "'Fraid so." He blinked and frowned. "Aren't you ready to see your family after all this?"_

 _"I haven't seen my father in, well, more than ten years now." The city glowed like a small ember in the distance, smoldering and deceptively innocuous. "I hadn't even received a letter in a year when he sent for me. Besides, I'm…never mind."_

 _"You're what?" With his head cocked, still resting on his forearms, bright blue eyes boring down at her with such genuine interest, he looked boyish, young. It was hard to reconcile this Billy with the giant, ash-covered, sword-wielding beast who carried her off Lowe's ship._

 _Abigail's nose wrinkled with distaste. "Oh, you know." He was still watching her, head still cocked. He didn't know. "Young women abducted by pirates, in this case two different ships, are not typically returned to their families…intact."_

 _Understanding dawned on his face in several phases, each more distressed than the last. "What…? Did they…? Howell said you were just sick from opium!"_

 _"I'm fine!" She grinned at him. "Truly. I could go the rest of my life without ever smelling laudanum again, but they didn't hurt me. Lowe said I wasn't to be harmed unless my father failed to pay my ransom."_

 _Billy still balked and shook his head. "They were animals. You say the word," he tipped her chin up to look at him, "and I'll, you know, kill them. More. The captain will agree."_

 _"Would he?" When Abigail giggled, Billy's smile lit up. "Good, I could use another few weeks of adventure at sea. Charles Town can wait."_

 _He leaned back, resting against the heavy mast. "It's not all pleasant days of sailing and music." He shook his head. "You'll be happy once you see your family again. You can get your life back."_

 _"And if I can't?" Abigail followed, until her back was against the mast and their shoulders pressed together._

 _"If you can't," Billy exhaled slowly, "then send me a letter, I'll come get you, and I'll help you start your life of crime, yeah?"_

 _Abigail's laughter tinkled through the night sky, against the canvas sails and out over the black water. She took a deep inhale and sighed. "That sounds lovely. I could be free, like you."_

 _"That's the goal." He was still gazing at the glowing embers of Charles Town when he felt Abigail's eyes on him. With her head tilted and expectation all over her face - an expression she'd been using all week to get information - he had to smile. "Everyone should be free. Everyone. You can't own a person."_

 _"How?" The question came out in a whisper. "How do you make everyone free?"_

 _"You fight for it." Billy shrugged, then smirked and rapped a knuckle against the wood at their backs. "You're already a rebel. You climbed the mizzen. No proper English lady's ever done that."_

 _"I did, didn't I?" Abigail brightened. "What next? I'm afraid I'm running out of time to be free."_

 _"The idea," Billy tipped his head conspiratorially, "is that it's sort of up to you."_

 _His face was so close to hers, she could feel his breath on her cheek. The air was distractingly cool against the warmth blossoming through her. As the ship rocked, the mast swung, bringing them at turns closer and further apart. The smell of hemp oil and saltwater was even stronger up here, but this close to Billy, there was something else, something earthy and warm, perhaps the ashy sailor soap they all used. If she wasn't mistaken, Billy had grown quite serious._

 _They were no longer drifting apart, only together. First their foreheads touched, then their noses, then, finally, before Abigail's heart could burst from her chest, their lips. His lips were firm, but gentle against hers, tugging at her bottom lip in a way that set the warmth spreading through her to fire. As quickly as it started, he pulled away, just far enough to separate their lips. Abigail froze. This close to him, she could feel the unsteady rise and fall of his chest. For a heartbeat, the fear that he would reject her, scold her, shame her, made her blood freeze._

 _His hand came up to cup the back of her head, brushing the rough pad of his thumb across her cheek. She thought she heard a muttered "fuck it," but the wind stole his words and he was kissing her again._

 _They stayed in the nest until the final bells rung before the morning crew would rouse and discover them._

 _It was a night Abigail didn't write about, but she didn't need to. It stayed with her every night after._

* * *

One small, somber wedding, and just about two weeks traveling down smaller and smaller roads into the American wilds, Abigail sat high on the cart's seat, jittery with anticipation. Reverend and Mrs. Locke were, according to their driver and the small cadre of soldiers who had joined them at their last stop, just a few hours from the encampment. The fort they departed just two days ago was the last of stable English civilization this far west in the Carolinas. At the fort, they collected a large supply of staples: grains, cheese, salt, cured meats, reams of durable homespun, tools, and more. Those were loaded into carts driven and protected by the soldiers - Marines, they corrected every time the word "soldier" was mentioned - returning to the forward camp.

This leg of the journey had started quietly. The soldiers had kept to themselves, disconsolate and grumbling about the end of their liberty, eager to shock the new recruits with horror stories about life on the frontier. The stories only served to turn Rev. Locke so pale Abigail thought he might actually be sick.

They were on their way to their new life. It was barely a camp, with two English investors clearing land for farming and a small troop of convicts serving their sentences by performing all manner of labor as demanded by the army and the landowners. Within the year, the Carolina governor expected to have enough land cleared for both farms and to start building a real colony, complete with businesses and permanent homes. Listening to the soldiers, Abigail came to understand that the community barely had the resources to maintain a sustenance farm, the humidity would make her feel as if she was swimming through air, the thunderstorms would keep her up to her knees in water and mud, the bugs would cover her head-to-toe in insanity-inducing itchy bites that may or may not also bring a fever and sweating sickness, and she would have to be forever on guard lest a convict or native catch her unawares and commit all manner of violations against her.

Poor Albert looked sicker and sicker, meanwhile Abigail brushed off nearly every tidbit except the bugs. Those might be uncomfortable. Albert was tipping into outright despair and no gentle encouragement from Abigail could help him. Finally, on the second night around the campfire, one of the Marines told a particularly egregious story involving a snakebite and no doctor or medicine. The whole troop of them grew silent, and all eyes flew to Albert, who blanched and sputtered helplessly, until they all burst into uproarious laughter. Realization dawned slowly on Albert and his pallor gave way to fresh blood in his cheeks, and he joined in their laughter. Abigail dissolved into giggles when she saw Albert finally realize the game the soldiers had been playing.

After that, their journey became infinitely more tolerable, even a little fun. Abigail was tired, nearing exhaustion, but between Albert and their new company, she had a renewed sense of hope. The soldiers now conversed openly with Albert, pleased and intrigued to meet the reverend brave enough to bring religion - and a wife - to them all the way at the edge of the world.

Dappled sunlight filtered through the heavy tree cover, but even in the shade it was still ungodly hot. The soldiers were right about the air here: Abigail's hair had taken to curling into a nearly unmanageable brown mass. A layer of sweat was accumulating so thoroughly she felt she might never be clean again. The closer they got to the camp, the closer she was to an actual bath, which, according to their new uniformed friends, they could have as much as they wanted, so long as they carried their own water from the nearby river. Abigail resolved to become the best water bucket-carrier in the camp. The grime and dirt from their journey was burrowing into her skin like a rash.

Albert walked along with the soldiers while Abigail rode. He had made sure to buy her shoes sturdy enough to survive the frontier, but she hadn't had time to properly break them in. Just a few hours of walking on their first day resulted in blisters so painful she'd barely been able to walk for days after. Albert had gently insisted that she keep her walking to a minimum lest one of her blisters turn into an open sore and became infected. It was both logical and considerate.

One of the soldiers elbowed Albert and the others in their little group started chuckling and jeering him with playful smiles. Albert colored furiously and ducked his head when the noise caught Abigail's attention. When she caught their words, she understood what had embarrassed him.

"…a little privacy with the missus, eh?" one of the younger soldiers ribbed him. They continued laughing and joking, completely unaware of just how uncomfortable they made the new couple. They had no way of knowing that the source of the mutual embarrassment was not prudish shyness. Or perhaps it was. Abigail was too inexperienced with these matters to really know.

What she did know was that her husband had been just as inexperienced and just as embarrassed by the whole thing as she was. He hadn't endured the pain she had, but that seemed to cause him such distress he may as well have been in pain. He had barely been able to look her in the eye in the days following, and they hadn't spoken of it since. Abigail briefly wondered if she might have gotten pregnant, but her courses showed up precisely on time, dismissing the thought.

On the night before they left Philadelphia, before extinguishing the candles, Albert had taken her hand in his with a soft squeeze. "Tell me truthfully, do you want children very badly?"

Abigail had been stunned. They had danced around the topic during their brief courtship, but never actually talked about it. She frowned and thought, suddenly aware that she hadn't given it a moment's consideration, maybe ever. "I'm not sure." She kept her hand in his, but her face pinched in deep thought. "It was always assumed that after marrying, I would have children, but, after my abduction, and my father's fall from grace, I couldn't assume anything about my future anymore. Would it be…un-Christian to not at least try? I do love children, I just-"

"It's not un-Christian," Albert rushed to her rescue. "At least in my study of the Word, there is no edict demanding that we start a family. Paul tells us in Corinthians it is good to set aside both marriage and children if either are an impediment to serving His ministry. Where we are going, we will not have access to reliable physicians or even midwifes, nor schools. It will be rough and dangerous. I'm not sure I could ever forgive myself if I endangered you by demanding children. I certainly couldn't carry on my ministry if any ill were to befall you."

Abigail returned his reassuring grip on her hand and nodded along with him. Relief washed over her in such a way that she was sure must be sinful and could not possibly be what Paul meant, but it was what she wanted to hear. "Then we are in agreement. Bearing children is most likely an unnecessary risk to your mission."

Albert's face had lit up with earnest relief to mirror her own. Neither one would vocalize their real feelings, as such an admission would make this shamefully sinful. But they reached an accord that had provided both with much needed reassurance.

They shifted easily, naturally, into being partners. Abigail found that Albert was every bit as kind as he seemed when the first met, and in turn Abigail offered unfailing support. Her husband doubted himself so often, Abigail wondered if he had lived his whole life the way she had lived since her father's execution.

The soldiers quieted down and lost interest in teasing their quarry as other sounds began to drift through the thick woods. A foreman was shouting instructions over a rhythmic pounding and cracking. Abigail assumed it must be men felling trees, or perhaps hammering something? She didn't know enough about labor. That would have to change.

Voices trickled louder and louder, and Abigail could hardly contain her excitement. She was practically jumping out of her seat, eliciting a good natured laugh from Albert who called up to her, "I told you we'd make it!"

As their train rounded the bend, Abigail gasped. The settlement seemed to simply appear out of the dense woods, clear and bright, with a series of tents, fire pits, and makeshift structures giving way to sprawling stretches of land in the process of clearing. At first glance the settlement looked far more advanced and stable than either Albert or the soldiers had lead her to believe. Everything looked so organized, though she had a difficult time discerning convicts from settlers and paid help. She saw no signs of what she had imagined a penal colony would look like. There were no men hobbling around in irons, nor were soldiers marching about, ready for war. She couldn't see which tents served as the barracks for convicts and which for soldiers. She briefly wondered if there even were separate barracks. Everything looked so open and free.

Shouts heralded their arrival. Red-coated Marines came out to greet their brothers and start unloading the wagons. As Albert helped Abigail down from the cart, a Marine came out from the central tent in this particular area, buttoning his more elaborate crimson coat and placing a tricorner hat over his dark hair.

He paused in front of the couple with his hands folded behind his back. His eyes flickered up and down Abigail and his lips pressed into a hard line. Abigail shrank a little under his scrutiny. Albert stuck out his hand, still grinning and blithely unaware of the man's judgment.

"Reverend Locke," Albert said when the officer finally took his hand, "and my wife, Mrs. Abigail Locke."

"Captain Jacobs," the Marine returned the handshake with a single pump, then released Albert's hand to resume his previous posture. "I apologize," his dark eyes returned to Abigail, "but the last word we received did not indicate that you would be bringing a spouse. This is a bit of a surprise." His voice was low and clipped. His face was clean-shaven and, well, clean, giving Abigail a moment's distraction that she could indeed get washed here.

Albert clapped him on the shoulder and continued his distant observation of the camp, still missing Capt. Jacobs' wince and subtle nose-wrinkling. "My apologies, Captain. It was a new development shortly before we departed. I had hoped to get a message to you sooner but," Albert shrugged, "the mail isn't very quick in these parts, eh?"

"No," Jacobs exhaled through his nose. "In any case, we'll have to see to new housing arrangements. We had planned on establishing a chapel with a cottage regardless, now we will have to accelerate those plans. I am the officer-in-charge here. My executive officer, Lieutenant Swann, will see to showing you around and securing suitable accommodations. Mr. Rowling owns the largest acreage and has been appointed the colony magistrate by the territorial governor. Mr. Kent owns the other acreage and he serves as the magistrate in Mr. Rowling's absence. Both have gone to Charles Town for business and should be back next month. For now, I serve as both camp commandant and magistrate. If you have concerns, please raise them with Lt. Swann before going to anyone else. Welcome to Camp Jackson."

He turned on his heel and marched away, shouting an order to one of the Marines, and not bothering to wait for a response from either Albert or Abigail.

Lt. Swann, a slender, fresh-faced young man stepped into Capt. Jacobs' place and extended his hand first to Albert, then to Abigail with a small bow. "You'll have to forgive the commandant. He has a uniquely stressful position here, managing both the Marines and the convicts."

With the sweep of a hand, he ushered them on a tour of the colony. The tents they'd arrived at served as the barracks for the thirty or so Marines in residence at the camp. To the north were the Rowling and Kent estates. So far they were simple cabins set on great stretches of land not yet fully cleared. To the west, butted right against the foot of the Appalachian mountains, were the convict, slave and prisoner barracks.

Abigail bit her tongue and tried to hide her distaste. She had grown somewhat accustomed to the practice of slavery, as well as the imprisonment of hostile natives, but it still turned her stomach. She had known that they would be serving both soldiers and convicts, but it had not occurred to her that this colony served multiple roles for the crown. Albert's fingers brushed the back of her hand until they clasped just long enough for him to give her a reassuring squeeze before releasing. That was all he had to do to calm her.

The young lieutenant was busily explaining the order of things: Marines and convicts alike were roused by morning bells at six. All residents ate from the same rations. Morning meals were distributed at seven, dinner at two, and evening repast at six in the evening. The civilians ate first and received double rations, something Albert only shook his head at. They would be eating the same as everyone else. Marines ate next, then the convicts. The slaves and native prisoners ate last.

Abigail was further shocked to learn that convicts enjoyed a higher degree of freedom here than slaves and natives. Their barracks were less crowded and after their morning formations, they were left to take themselves to and from their daily duties. The commandant even saw fit to assign certain convicts supervisory duties over the others. The lower classes of prisoners were directed by armed guard and brutal-looking foremen. All except the civilians were subject to summary execution if they attempted escape. The mountains served as a natural deterrent. Swann insisted that only some of the natives would even be capable of surviving the wilds, everyone else would either come crawling back to the colony or be found dead within miles.

Camp Jackson was home to some odd 150 convicts and 75 slaves and prisoners. Of those, less than 20 were women. The women were assigned more domestic tasks. The most privileged female convicts had the pleasure of serving as housekeepers for the camp commandant and landowners.

"That's nearly 230 prisoners here, isn't it, Lieutenant?" Abigail found her voice midst the overwhelming deluge of new information. "And only 30 armed men to guard us?"

Swann smiled - the first she'd seen from anyone at the camp. "That, Mrs. Locke, is why the governor sent Marines rather than army regulars. Our men are more equipped to handle austere conditions and maintaining security in situations that may appear impossible." He paused outside a standalone tent and gestured to the flap. "Until we get your accommodations in place, you may make use of my tent."

"Oh, we couldn't possibly-" Abigail started.

"I insist," Swann offered with a warm tilt to his lips. "I can't very well have you bunking with the female convicts, and although we originally intended the reverend to bunk with the non-commissioned officers until the chapel is built, I'm not sure he would be prepared to see exactly what Marines are up to in their barracks." He let out a jovial laugh and clapped Albert on the back, who joined the hilarity slowly, quietly, unsure if he was getting the joke.

Swann whistled and waved for someone. "James! Get a working party and come to my tent. I'll have them clear out anything I need and get your things moved in," he offered as explanation for the couple.

Abigail was busily inspecting the camp around her - the tents, the people moving about their day, eying them with outright curiosity, the green wildlife that seemed everywhere at once, the sounds of crickets and birds and wind moving through the trees. She turned her attention back when heavy steps jogged over the drying leaves on the ground and joined their little party. She had to look up, and then up and up until she saw a face that made her heart slam to a stop.

It couldn't be. Abigail burned through the possible scenarios that could have led to this precise moment but none made any sense. Was she dreaming? Had she fallen asleep on the cart? Had she fallen right out of the cart and bumped her head?

William Manderly was frozen and staring back at her with such astonishment, he must have been wondering the same. His face was partially exposed by a thick blonde beard. Words in black ink marked one of his forearms, but Abigail was too stunned to read them. He looked at least a decade older than when she last saw him…what was it now? Four years ago, but it was Billy, her Billy. Abigail's heart resumed beating and was thundering with such force, her pulse was all she could hear. Her mouth must have been hanging open like a fish.

"James?" Swann's voice came through their mutual haze, sharp and demanding. "Did you hear a word I said? If you don't stop gawking at the minister's wife-"

"I'm so sorry!" Abigail's voice came out at least an octave too high. She reached and reached for something to say. "I must be making him so uncomfortable. I've forgotten my manners. Mr. James, you are the spitting image of a boy I grew up with in Kent. For a moment I thought I must be dreaming!" She forced out a shrill giggle that earned her particularly strange looks from both Swann and Albert. Billy relaxed by a measure and tore his eyes away.

"Sorry, Ma'am," he mumbled, eyes on the dirt. "I'll take care of it, Boss." In several loping strides he was gone as quickly as he arrived.

The rest of the day passed in a hazy cloud until Abigail found herself in bed, next to her already sleeping husband, staring up at the white canvas roof, already so similar to the Siren, wondering what power on Earth had led her and Billy Bones to the same bloody penal colony.


	3. Chapter 3

It had been three days since he saw her. They were three of the most torturous days of his life, and he had actually been tortured. Repeatedly. There were more than 200 people at this camp, and if he didn't watch his step, the lovely Mrs. Locke would appear like a wisp of smoke or his own shadow. It was like she was trying to corner him. He toyed with the thought that she might be. It was clearly quite a shock to her to see him. Newly married, she probably feared he would reveal their relationship.

That doesn't make any type of sense, Gates' voice told him. She lied for you. She's probably just as surprised to see you as you are to her.

She had lied. Not well, but God bless the woman, one look from him and she had spat out a lie as best she could.

She was just covering for herself, the darker side of his mind creeped in, always there to remind him how things really work. It wouldn't do for her new husband to know she'd let a pirate put his hands on her. Serves her interest as much as it serves yours.

Even though their little mizzen rendezvous didn't go beyond kissing, it was a lot of kissing, enough to still keep him up at night years later. A proper lady could be ruined for less.

Like handing her diary over to the territorial courts, ensuring that her father was thoroughly implicated as complicit in the Siren's assault on Charles Town, after years of taking bribes from pirates, all because he didn't want to pay Flint Abigail's ransom.

Why yes, Abigail, after I took liberties with your body, I had a direct hand in getting your father executed and burning your reputation to the ground, knowing damn well a woman like you has only a reputation and nothing else with which to make her way in the world. Lovely to see you. She'd like that, he was sure.

He deserved this, every last back breaking, exhausting, humiliating moment. Silver might have called this a humbling experience. He slammed his shovel into the dirt and brush. The Carolina sun was beating down a punishing heat. They were nearly in fall, but apparently Abigail had brought the summer with her. Sweat dripped down his face, his back, even his hands. It was so hot, he almost forgot about the pain in his knee. A slow look to his left and right showed men all up and down the line clearing brush, all moving as slowly as he was. He wiped the sweat away with the back of his hand, smearing a layer of grime across his already filthy skin, and resumed tossing the brush into the nearest pile.

Movement at the end of the line caught his eye. Drab brown skirts and long brown hair, and a bloody bucket sloshing water. What the fuck.

Abigail was working her way down the line, refilling men's canteens before hobbling back to the water trough and resuming her distribution. He could actually feel the tension wrinkling his forehead. His eyes searched until he saw the foreman - a pale (though often lobster-red) man with a big mustache and bigger belly - was on his horse, smiling stupidly at Abigail and apparently engaged in a shouted conversation with her from his place midway between Billy and Abigail on the line.

How could the foreman allow this? She could hurt herself. One of these criminals could attack her. She could get sick, it was hot as Hell itself. Those water buckets were heavy. The men on the line could refill their canteens themselves at dinner, and it would take her that long at this rate to get to everyone. This was madness.

He rumbled an angry noise in his throat - probably a growl - and slammed his shovel back to work. This time he felt every splinter in the handle, every blister burning to life on his palms. He'd thought his hands were properly calloused to labor after at least a year, maybe two now, off a real crew. He'd let himself get soft, giving into the drink, wandering from the West Indies back to London for no reason at all. In the strangest way, out here, with criminals and slaves, facing the whip and English guns like he had as a boy, he found a strange sense of purpose. He ached all over, sometimes his knee throbbed like it was stabbed all over again, but his mind was clear, and he was so tired at the end of the day, he didn't have the energy to hate his English captors.

His back and shoulders flexed as he slung another pile of brush and dirt onto a bigger pile. Within the month, they'd have this land cleared, then tilled. He wondered what life on the colony would hold for him after that. The foreman and the Marine officers were relying on him more to act as a sort of non-commissioned officer of the prisoners. He wasn't surprised by it. People responded to him, they always had. He had ten years on his sentence, and that was a long time in a place like this. The English had big plans for this part of their territory, and considering the type of prisoners chosen to work the land and how they were treated, Billy assumed their placement here had more to do with settling there themselves, and a bit less to do with punishment. He snarled again, low in his throat, silencing the wanderings of his mind. He had retired from the business of plots and schemes. It was of no concern to him what anyone wanted to do with this bit of unruly land except clearing it.

"Ahem." The little cough shouldn't have surprised him, but it did. He slowly turned to look over his shoulder and there she was, prim as you please, clutching that damned bucket. Now that she was closer, he could see the sweat curling the soft hair around her temples, dampening the neck and shoulders of her plain, heavy dress. Her snowy white hands were wrapped in thin strips of cloth, and he could still see the redness of new use spreading across her palms. He scowled and snatched the heavy bucket from her.

Abigail flinched and her mouth formed a hard line to match his. He pulled his own canteen over his shoulders and set to filling it, tearing his eyes away from her. Even in his periphery, he could see those small, bandaged hands alternately fisting and flexing in frustration. "I just thought everyone could use more water before-"

"What are you doing here?" he mumbled the question, still focused on the stupid, ugly, decrepit, probably rotten, bucket.

As he stood, Abigail now cast her eyes to the dirt. He could see her chewing her lip and trying her best to hide it. "My husband-"

"The minister."

"Yes, he felt a calling to minister to the people who…" she trailed off, wiping a few beads of sweat from her forehead.

"Who have nowhere else to go?" He finally faced her fully, eyebrows raised in challenge.

Her brown eyes flared back at him, before the corners of her lips twitched and the anger faded into humor. She stifled a laugh and covered her mouth with her hand. "That's nearly exactly what I said!" She hid her words, but they were light and airy, with a happiness that reminded him so clearly of the Siren it was painful. But, almost of their own accord, his lips turned up to match her smile.

Billy shifted his canteen between his hands, uncertain. "I, um…thank you, for your discretion."

The humorous light left her eyes, but she no longer seemed actively angry with him. Billy couldn't decide if that was better or worse. "In my experience, they hang pirates. Since they didn't hang you, and you looked about ready to keel over when you saw me, I assumed."

"You read it right." Flickers of pride licked at his spine. He looked back down at the bucket, then down the other end of the line. "Are you really going to keep hauling water like a…?" He gestured broadly to the men remaining.

"Like a black?" She tipped her chin. "Or one of the native prisoners? Or you? What kind of minister's wife would I be if I didn't serve my husband's flock?"

Billy brought his hands to his hips and shook his head. "You could sew, like the women prisoners. We always need serviceable clothes."

"If you'd ever seen my needlework, you'd know what you're asking is probably a sin." They shared a small laugh before Abigail winced and brought a hand up to her forehead. She dropped it quickly and forced a smile. "I'm sorry. I must not be used to this heat. Do the headaches go away?"

"Headaches? Abi-Mrs. Locke, perhaps that's enough work for one day." He moved to take the bucket and escort her back to the tents, but she waved him off.

"I'm fine, I'm fine." She stooped and straightened with the bucket in hand. Before she set off, she spared him a thoughtful look. "What do they call you here?"

Still thinking like a pirate, he fought another swell of pride and affection. "Will James."

Abigail nodded smartly. "I think I can remember that. Have a good afternoon, Mr. James."

He watched her staggered step, hobbled by the heavy load in her hands, and still felt like a proper ass for not taking it from her. Not that she would ever allow it.

Billy returned to his work, less aware of the raw spots burning his palms or the sun blazing down his back. The nettles, mosquitoes, flies, and itchy leaves faded from sensation. They'd driven him nearly mad at first. All he could think about, even in his dreams, was the refreshing splash of cool ocean water on his face from the deck of a ship. Today though, his mind was on the small brunette in a heavy dress marching to and fro on the work line. Abigail went back and forth behind him at least four more times. He never turned to look at her, but he watched her comings and goings in his periphery, and he could feel her eyes on him.

It was sometime after her fourth trip past him that he heard faint shouts at the far end of the line. He dropped his shovel and brought his hand up over his eyes to block the sun. Squinting in the distance, he saw the men circling around something and waving for help. His chest constricted and he let out a sharp whistle for the foreman before launching into a dead sprint. He didn't have to see through the mass of sweaty prisoners and slaves to know who was at the center of their attention.

He was barking for them to move and physically shoving men out of his way without being fully conscious of anything except the wilted, pale woman lying in the dirt. One of the men held her head up while another slowly poured water down the top of her head. She was blinking slowly and her lips were moving but her voice was so soft she may as well have been silent.

Billy cupped her face, pushing her wet hair away from where it matted on her forehead. "What happened?" he shouted at the man kneeling behind her with her head on his legs. Later, Billy would feel guilty for his harsh treatment. The man - Marcus? He paid little attention to almost everyone at the colony - looked nearly as stricken as Billy felt.

"She came to give me water," Marcus explained. "She looked so pale, I tried to take the bucket from her. I told her it's too heavy, it's too hot. She talked some nonsense and then fainted. It's too hot for a lady, Boss."

Boss? That was new. Billy ground his teeth and shook his head. He scooped Abigail off the dirt as the actual boss rode up. The pudgy man squinted down from his horse and spat a wad of tobacco from the corner of his mouth. "Take her to my tent, I'll fetch her husband. You and you," he pointed the handle of his whip at two of the slaves, "get fresh water from the creek and bring it to James."

Billy was already striding toward the foreman's tent before he was done issuing his instructions. He winced when he realized the tiny fists clutching at his shirt were trying to push him away. Her mumblings had taken the form of denials, and a repeated insistence that she was fine. He had to forcibly shove down memories of the first time they'd been in this position, and her identical reaction.

Marcus was ahead of him, pushing the foreman's tent flap open and pulling out a wooden chair. Billy would remember his name now. Once he settled her in the chair, Billy knelt in front of Abigail, cupping her face between his palms again and searching for her heavy-lidded brown eyes to find him. "Abigail? C'mon, girl, I need you to say something."

Her face screwed up in effort and she forced out, "…Hot." Her hands came up to pull at the thick fabric covering her neckline.

Billy's eyes followed her hand and he reached for the material, then pulled his hands back and shot a look up to Marcus. "Get Lizzie." Marcus nodded, his bushy hair bouncing along after him. As soon as he was out the door, Billy returned his attention to Abigail. "I'm going to take this off of you so you can breathe better, yeah?"

Abigail's eyes were closed, but she tilted her chin one time in affirmation. His hands looked ridiculously large and filthy on the creamy material of whatever-the-hell she had tucked around her collar. What in the name of Christ was this? Sailcloth? In his haste, he accidentally tore off two buttons securing it. He took more care on the front, suddenly extremely aware of the soft curves the backs of his hands brushed against. Once it was free, he tossed the material aside, revealing the normal square neckline he saw on women's dresses.

She took a gasping breath at the freedom, but her face was still wrenched in discomfort. One of the prisoners bustled in, sloshing cool water across the floorboards. Billy snatched the neck piece he'd just discarded, soaked it in the water, and then pressed it against the back of Abigail's neck.

"You're over-hot, Abi-Mrs. Locke." Billy caught himself before calling her by her given name in front of others. Again. "Have you been drinking anything?" She shook her head. Billy dipped his head and his expression softened. He took the ladle and brought it to Abigail's lips. She leaned forward eagerly but he pulled back. "Ah, slowly, slowly."

Chastened, she took a small sip, then another, bringing her hands up lightly over his, as if he might snatch the water away. After a few sips she slumped back in the chair, pain wrought across her expression.

"What is it?" Billy returned the ladle to the bucket.

Abigail swallowed hard. "My head…and I'm still so hot." She started tugging at the collar of her dress. Billy shot a panicked look to the prisoner who only shrugged. Fortunately at that moment, Marcus returned with Lizzie, one of the more senior female prisoners.

Lizzie was waving the men out of the way to get a better assessment of her patient. "She fainted?" She directed her question to Billy, hands on her hips, a frown marring her usually pretty, angular face.

"She got sun-sick, hasn't been drinking water." His new distance from Abigail made his fingers itchy.

Lizzie made an unimpressed huff and moved behind Abigail's chair. "C'mon, stand her up." Billy took her by the waist and helped her stand. Lizzie went to work on the ties of her dress, loosening them enough to reach in and do the same to her stays. "Sorry, Ma'am, but you'll feel better if you can breathe." As Lizzie tugged and pulled at the mess of strings, she muttered a string of complaints about foolish ladies not having the good sense to dress proper and keep drinking in the heat.

His grip on her waist tightened ever so slightly when Abigail finally lifted her eyes to him. Her hands rested on his forearms and he was pleased to see clarity returning to her face. He almost, for a breath, forgot that they weren't alone.

"There," Lizzie broke his trance, "she'll start feeling better in no time. Keep her feet up and cool rags handy."

Billy eased Abigail back into her seat, but she needed less help this time. Their hands lingered on each other, pulling apart by minute increments. Billy told himself she was slow to break contact because she was dizzy and out of sorts. He had no excuse for himself.

"Thank you," Abigail croaked out.

Lizzie gave her a small acknowledgment then focused on Billy. "You want me to save you a plate for supper, Will?"

"Yeah, sure," he mumbled, his attention still locked on Abigail.

With a small huff, Lizzie left as brusquely as she had entered.

"You look terrible," Abigail whispered, studying the lines in his face. She held the ladle in her hands, still taking small sips on her own now.

Billy scoffed, momentarily knocked off balance by her scrutiny. "I look terrible?"

"You do." Abigail's lips turned up behind the ladle. Color was slowly returning to her cheeks. "What happened to you?"

Billy rocked back on his heels, then stood to pace the room. He rubbed his hand over his beard. "What can I say? The life of crime wasn't that great."

Abigail only tilted her head at him and frowned. "Really, though?"

"I don't know what you want me to say." Billy felt his hackles rising. He needed to stop pacing. He needed to walk out of this tent and wait by the flap with Marcus. He wanted to put his hands back on her and never answer any of these questions. "You know what I was. I should be dead. I'm one of the lucky ones."

Abigail sat up straighter, shaking her head. "I don't understand."

"No, you don't." Billy regretted his words and tone almost the moment they left his lips. He felt her recoil like a punch to his gut. There was no going back and it needed to be said. "You stay away from me, do you hear? You've got no business being seen around me, or I you. You want to serve your husband's flock? Minister to the women prisoners."

God help him, her eyes began to water. The delicate line of her jaw hardened and her entire body went stiff. His words hung in the air between them. She was in no condition to storm out, so he turned on his heel and left her there, hating himself a little more with each step. Marcus spared him a sidelong look, but didn't say anything. Fuck. He'd forgotten the man was there. He'd have to correct that later, not that the slaves or prisoners generally benefited from turning on each other.

In the distance, a flurry of bright red coats and Rev. Locke's customary black were hustling toward the tent.

Good, Billy thought. Her own people.

* * *

"Is there something you'd like to tell me?" Albert's voice was soft in the tent that had become theirs. Abigail's hands stilled on her notes. She had lessons to plan and supplies to organize if she was going to establish an informal school for the Jackson colony.

In the weeks since her mortifying fainting spell, she had honored Billy's command to stay away. He never spared her a glance and she returned the favor.

Capt. Jacobs decreed that she would do no more manual labor until he was confident that she was, in his words, "sufficiently hardy" to the conditions. Left to her own devices, she quickly identified that a large number of workers at Camp Jackson were illiterate. Albert happily agreed that all people benefit from being able to read God's word for themselves, and holding lessons in the chapel would be a worthy Christian endeavor.

Albert was quietly supportive of her ideas and watched over her health - from how much she was eating and sleeping to her pallor and even the condition of her hair - like a mother hen. It was sweet, if a little smothering. But now he asked the question that had been in his eyes since he came running into the foreman's tent to find her teary-eyed and angry.

"I know the conditions on this colony are…unsettling to you," Albert continued.

"Unsettling?" Abigail raised an eyebrow at him. The candle glow and canvas tents gave everything a soft orange glow. Even Albert looked warm "Slavery is so barbaric it's outlawed at home, yet we call it a divine right here. It doesn't make sense to me."

"It shouldn't." Albert settled on the bench next to her, taking her hand. The provisions in the tent were meager, but they had a small bed to share, and a private table with simple bench seats to share tea and write correspondence. "Unfortunately, there's nothing we can do about it here except treat everyone equally and perhaps set a good example."

Abigail made a dissatisfied sound in her throat and brought her quill back to her notes.

After a moment, Albert tried again. "Is that all that's been bothering you?"

Her hand paused on the paper long enough to leave a messy blot. She raised her guilty eyes up to her husband. "I know I'm supposed to tell you everything, but what if there is a secret that isn't mine to tell?"

Albert shrugged balefully. "I don't know if there's a clear answer. I would never force you to tell me anything, but I can see something pains you. If it could lighten you at all to tell me, I wish you would."

He was so genuine it almost hurt. Abigail set her quill aside and pulled her hands together in her lap, wringing them and chewing her lip. Where to start? As badly as he'd treated her, Abigail could no more betray the secret of Billy's identity than she could run through the encampment naked. "I, um," Abigail winced but Albert covered her hands in his, "I know one of the convicts."

"Mr. James." Abigail looked at him in askance, earning a pitying smile in return. "I assumed based on our first meeting with the man. And I've heard the Marines talking. They've said he's a pardoned pirate. I believe that is the only way you would know such a man."

"Of course!" Abigail shifted in her seat to face him. She dropped her voice low, aware as always that their privacy was limited to fabric walls. "I do know him, but no one here can know that. If they suspect for even a moment that he isn't who they think he is, he'll hang."

Albert brought her hand to his lips, brushing a light kiss across the back of her knuckles. "You can trust me, Abigail."

There was a damp chill in the air. Fall had come swiftly with winter hot on its heels. Abigail shivered and pulled her wrapper tighter, wondering exactly how warm these tents would remain when snow started to fall. "I know I can." She thought for a long moment, staring sightlessly at the lines in the smooth wooden table. "I don't know what became of him or why he's here, but he saved my life. I could never forgive myself if he lost his because of me."

"Then perhaps now is a good time…" Albert trailed off as he pushed from the bench and scurried as well as he could to one of the bookshelves. He returned with a rolled map, which he unveiled with what should have been flourish, but he paused to collect himself, shaking his head before laying out the paper. He'd been doing that more and more as the weather turned colder. He wouldn't complain, but Abigail observed his hardships as well as he observed hers. "Here!" He pointed at a relatively flat, featureless area just on the north and west edge of the colony. Abigail identified the symbols denoting tents and partitioned farm land. This little spot was free and buffeted by the rising Appalachian Mountains on two sides. "Lt. Swann and I walked this area today, and we agree it will make an excellent place for a chapel and a small house. What do you think?"

Abigail let her fingers trail over the map and searched for the right response to indicate she was as pleased as he was. "It's, well it looks like a nice spot. I'm sure it's lovely in person."

"Swann is going to present it to the commandant, and if he approves, we'll organize a crew and start building as early as tomorrow. If we can get it done before the snows come, it would be preferable."

Abigail hummed a happy approval. "So we could have a house and a chapel soon, then?"

"Ned, er, Lt. Swann, said so. On that note," Albert rolled the map up, "he did recommend that we put Mr. James in charge of the construction. He says the convicts and slaves respond well to him. He seems to know how to manage all manner of jobs here, and they don't want to spare the foreman from the line. Would you feel comfortable with that?"

This was something to seriously consider. Billy had been so angry with her the last time they spoke. But it wasn't like she was asking herself. Albert would be asking, and ultimately it would be at the Marines' discretion how they wanted to use the convict labor around the colony.

"I'm sure it will be fine."

* * *

Abigail squinted against the sunlight. Billy and a handful of convicts - only the most helpful sort, like the colony's carpenter, the blacksmith, and one of the others she'd noticed as another defacto leader among them - were milling around the proposed site doing all manner of official-looking things. Billy would point, make a comment, and one or all of the other men would reply. They would go back and forth before moving on to the next place where they'd stop and start the process all over again. It was all very official and strangely aggressive.

Although she hadn't the faintest what exactly they were doing, she could see that Albert was utterly useless to this process, smiling and agreeing with everything the men said. It only further endeared him to her.

She shifted the laundry basket on her hip and continued on her way to the creek. They were close to a place where it widened into a calm pool before narrowing again on a rocky passage westward from the mountains. She actually looked forward to laundry, despite the unfamiliar nature of the work. The green woods were turning all manner of orange and red, and she found the babbling clear water soothing.

More importantly, this was where the majority of the female convicts gathered once a week. She put on a happy face and hoped that today would be the day someone other than Henrietta spoke to her. At nearly 70, Henrietta held the dubious honor of being the oldest person in the colony. When they first met, she'd told Abigail through a nearly toothless grin, "I don't give two figs about your station or anybody else's in this backwoods prison. These girls'll get their knickers up about how you ain't one of us, but the way I see it, we're all stuck here together." After that, she'd shoved a laundry pail into Abigail's arms and gave her quick instruction on how to use the river rocks to clean fabric without destroying it.

It had been reassuring, even hopeful, that a woman who must hold some influence with the others had already embraced her, but after that she'd faced nothing but cold shoulders. None of her peers deigned to acknowledge her, and now none of the female convicts did the same.

Today, though, could be the day.

Voices trickled through the trees and brush. They sounded cheerful, teasing and laughing punctuated by splashes. A few voices quieted when Abigail appeared, but the others continued on uninterrupted.

Abigail found a spot near Lizzie and began to dig out the soiled clothes and sheets. Lizzie stoutly ignored her.

She slipped off her shoes and bunched up her skirts. Stepping into the water was always shockingly cold, but today there was more bite. Despite the brief spike of summery warmth, winter was well on its way. As she began the process of dipping and beating the sheet, she looked up under her lashes at Lizzie and quietly cleared her throat. Lizzie paused, but continued her work. "I wanted to thank you," Abigail spoke anyway, "for your assistance when I collapsed."

Lizzie's thick black hair hung loose around her shoulders. With bright golden eyes and full lips, she would have been the center of any ballroom or party in high society. Instead, they were side-by-side up to their calves in icy water in a penal colony at the edge of the known world. Lizzie didn't look up from her work, but the stiffening of her shoulders and a few unnecessarily aggressive whips of wet laundry told Abigail she was displeased.

"All I did was loosen your stays," Lizzie finally replied. Then, under her breath and with a lip curl, "Besides, looked like Will was about to do it himself." Lizzie snatched the rest of her work back into her basket and whirled away, stomping hard enough to send splashes clear up to Abigail's waist in her wake. She paused at the creek's edge and turned back to Abigail with a smile so snide Abigail was certain she would have fit right into the dame crowd. "He's quite skilled with unlacing dresses, just so you know, for next time."

She left Abigail staring after her.

Well, at least someone other than Henrietta finally spoke to her.

* * *

"I've seen this before, in my enlisted men." Swann sounded almost wistful.

"Boss, with all due respect," Billy struggled to rein his temper back, "it's not a matter of me wanting or not wanting to do this. I just don't understand how you expect me to be a foreman on anything. I'm a convict. It's one thing to take accountability, it's something else entirely to actually give me a billet."

Swann, younger, shorter and slimmer than Billy by half, had the audacity to smirk and chuckle. "Be brave, man. By the time this place is a real town, you'll own half of it."

"And if I don't want that?" This simply could not be happening. He was a convict, like almost everyone else here. No better, no worse. He was here to do labor until his sentence was up or he was pardoned. He could not do this again. He was no man's boatswain, a worse quartermaster, and the worst first officer.

Men who followed him died. He lead them to ruin, or he killed them himself. Men like Swann died allowing him into their command.

For his part, Swann was marginally less oblivious than the reverend. Billy had to give him credit, though. Rev. Locke was still all smiles and hopefulness, despite the hardships and skepticism of his new flock, and he managed to endear himself to all manner of people better qualified than he was.

He endeared himself to Abigail Ashe. If there was a woman of good character and breeding who could actually survive the bitter edges of the empire, it was Abigail Ashe. Locke had indeed found himself the perfect missionary bride. In Lt. Swann, Locke had found another eager, perennially chipper partner.

"Dear Christ, you look like I've just told you we're taking your legs." Swann was still talking. His scarlet coat and brass buttons shone brilliant in the midday sun. He was laughing at Billy. "Don't take it so hard, mate. The convicts, hell, some of my own men listen to you."

"Capt. Jacobs doesn't listen to me."

Swann snorted. "Jacobs doesn't listen to anyone."

They both watched in silence as Albert bustled to and fro, excitedly pointing out ideas and visions for his little house and chapel to the colony's carpenter. Almost every skilled job in the community was performed by a convict. It had surprised Billy at first, but the dangers of the wilds, the French, the Indians, and the noose were a better jail than any iron cage. The people here were here until an armed British escort took them out.

From the corner of his eye, Billy could see Swann watching Locke with a pleasant expression that fell somewhere between curiosity and fondness. It was an expression he knew well, for so many reasons, and for so many reasons, it made his blood run cold.

"Just let him have this. He likes you and he's dead set on keeping everyone here gainfully employed in something other than farm labor."

Billy studied Swann, searching for the chink in the armor or the tell, some hint that this was a bizarre game. "I'm a convict. You could just order me to do this."

Swann shrugged. "Some of my peers might take that approach, but I don't see why I should. If you're that committed to clearing brush, you can stay on the lines. But," Swann clapped him on the shoulder, just once, "I think you'd do well at this, and so does the reverend."

Saying "yes" to this inspired a dearth of confusing feelings and possible outcomes. The idea of building a house for Abigail appealed to some baser need to please her, while simultaneously raising his hackles at the fact that it was a home she'd be sharing with another man. Agreeing meant he'd be seeing more of her, as Locke would no doubt want her input throughout the process. Billy liked the idea of seeing more of her, almost as much as the idea horrified him. Seeing more of her was the absolute worst thing he could do.

"Fine."


	4. Chapter 4

In the first week of November, just as the plans were finalized, the foundations laid, and the lumber had been cut, an off-season storm halted all life in the colony. If the weather continued like this, Abigail and Albert would be in Ned's tent until spring.

Albert made no complaints, but the thin canvas walls provided little shelter from the cold. Abigail could tolerate the cold, but Albert's pallor had taken a steady gray that never seemed to produce the happy red flush that normally came so naturally to him. He rarely finished his meals, which suited Jacobs just fine. More food for my men, and less we'll have to dig out of our stores when the snows come.

For all his brutal, cold treatment, Jacobs had shared a box of his own tea with Albert, and it was one of the few things Albert continued to drink as all other food and wine became less and less appealing. She diligently kept a kettle and a fire going so he could have hot water whenever the mood struck. If there was only one thing she could do to bring him some comfort, she would damn well do it.

His sermons were getting shorter and shorter, and for the past week she'd been getting food for both of them. Billy doggedly ignored or avoided her at the mess tent. Even the cook didn't spare words for her when she filled their plates. Only Henrietta and the small handful of male convicts and slaves who took her writing lessons would greet her and inquire about the health of their minister.

Abigail tightened her scarf around her head and tucked her hands deep into the pockets of her dress. The sun was hidden behind a thick layer of gray clouds, but it had momentarily stopped snowing. Hard snow had accumulated on tents, dropping in icy chunks from the trees. The higher trafficked paths were still frozen, but would be mud by the afternoon.

Light flakes landed on her cheeks, frozen for only a moment before melting down her skin. She turned her face up to the sky and let the snowflakes fall freely. Her nose was cold but the little drops were soothing. As the snow hit her lips, she let them part just enough to taste it. Distant shouting brought her back to Camp Jackson, breaking her reverie.

When her eyes returned to the path, she found Billy. He was covered in a heavy jacket, and frozen on the path to the mess tent. He looked like he'd stopped mid-stride, with an unreadable expression on his face. The corners of his eyes softened. His lips parted, like he might speak, but another shout rose up and his expression hardened. With one more backward glance at her, he took off on a jog in the direction of the yelling.

She followed down the path between the tents but came up short at the crowd around the mess tent. The scarlet line of Marines stood in sharp repose against the white snow on the ground and the mass of dingy grays and browns the prisoners and slaves wore. Jacobs was addressing them, and they were largely displeased with his news.

Angry shouts rose from the crowd. "We're already on half rations!" "How are we supposed to work like this?"

"I don't know what you lot are complaining about," one of the convicts grinned, "Davies' food tastes like shit anyway." This earned a rolling chuckle and a sharp scowl from Jacobs.

"Anyone," Jacobs boomed, his eyes scanning the crowd and lingering on Abigail before moving on, "caught taking extra will face immediate punishment. You will line up in an orderly fashion or you will not eat."

The crowd was still jostling and grumbling in the face of his threats. Abigail faced enough dark, hooded looks to tell her exactly how everyone would feel if she circumvented the line this morning. She hated to leave Albert waiting longer than necessary. He had been sitting up in bed when she left, but it had taken an unreasonable amount of effort to get there. He was getting weaker by the hour.

"Go on," Billy appeared at her side. "I'll bring you both plates."

Abigail started and stared up at him. Her mind cycled through so many questions, she couldn't figure out where to start. She struggled and searched for the right response. Albert preached patience last week, and she had to remind herself of his words before she bit Billy's head off.

Billy spared her the decision. If she wasn't mistaken, he had to hide a smile. "Just go. I'll handle this."

She opened her mouth to thank him - or maybe just sputter "Why" - but he was already shouldering his way through the convicts on a direct path to Lt. Swann. Part of her wanted to stand there until he returned so she could demand an explanation. Who was he to scold and dismiss her in the first place, and then to materialize the moment she needed help, knowing exactly what to do without having spoken to her in weeks? Not that she needed his help. She could wait in line without jostling any of the already riled convicts.

Instead of doing that, or forcing a public argument, Abigail stowed her feelings and took advantage of the opportunity to return to her warm tent and get some tea brewing for her husband. When she bustled through the tent door, the silence that greeted her wasn't surprising. Even when he was awake, Albert was often quietly studying or writing.

She shook her scarf out near the entrance then made her way to check the fire and prepare a cup. He was still a lump in the bed when she brought the steaming teacup to the little bedside table. It was only when she squeezed his shoulder that she noticed the bloody kerchief in his hand, and a little porcelain pot on the floor was full of bile and blood. In a rising panic, she shook his shoulder harder, calling his name, but he only groaned behind closed eyes.

Abigail was outside the Marines' non-commissioned officer barracks shouting for Lt. Swann before she had fully decided what to do. He came out quickly, pulling his coat on and looking as bewildered as the other Marines gathering to her call. "What? What is it?"

Ned reached for her and grasped her gently by her upper arms, but she was already pulling away to lead him back to her - well, his - tent. "He's sick," Abigail called over her shoulder. The snow was coming down harder now, in great wet flakes. If it kept going at this rate, it would obscure visibility to just a few feet. Ned was a red and gold shape just behind her. "Albert is sick. There's blood."

He followed her into the tent. When she knelt by her husband's side, Ned bent over him, frowning in a way that offered no reassurance. "How long has he been like this?"

"I..I don't know." Abigail felt her voice quavering. "He's been so tired and weak. He's barely been eating."

"He's got a fever," Ned deduced after pressing his palm against Albert's damp forehead. He stood and took Abigail with him by her arms again, forcing her to look at him. "Mrs. Locke, we don't have a doctor here. Lizzie and some of the other girls patch people up, but that's it."

Fear rose up in her throat, threatening to choke her and putting her chest in a vice. "But there has to be someone! Don't you have a medic?"

Ned could only shake his head. "I'm sorry, the nearest physician is at the fort."

Tears clouded in her eyes and she returned to Albert, taking his clammy hand in hers. His hand was limp and lifeless.

"Mrs. Locke?" Billy's voice came through the canvas flap that served as a door.

Abigail blinked twice, having completely forgotten Billy's promise to bring her their food. "Oh, um, let him in." Ned's eyes tightened just a measure at the corners. Oh, right. He's a convict. "Please?"

Billy had to stoop to get through the door. With Ned already in the tent, it became crowded quickly. His eyes took in the scene, studying Abigail and Albert carefully. He slid the two covered plates onto the small table, then paused. "What's wrong?"

"The reverend is sick," Ned answered for her. "It's not food poisoning, there's blood."

"May I?" Billy nodded in the direction of the bed. Ned looked to Abigail, and she nodded eagerly, standing and backing out of Billy's way.

As Billy set to inspecting Albert, he spoke in a low voice, "Men on the ship got sick a lot from eating things we'd…acquired." Ned let the explanation pass without comment. Billy rocked back to standing. "Has he been eating anything other than the rations?"

Abigail shook her head then her brow wrinkled. "No, but he has been drinking the tea Capt. Jacobs gave him. He's barely been eating anything at all."

"Get rid of it," Billy responded quickly. "Do you have surfeit water? Leeches? Brandy and poppy leaves would work." He waved Ned over. "Smell his breath."

Ned moved to the bedside and bent just long enough to get an inhale. "Garlic?"

Billy nodded. "He's eating something contaminated. You're not drinking that tea, are you?" He frowned at Abigail, looking her up and down as if some part of her appearance might reveal the answer.

"No, I don't care for it. But what about Capt. Jacobs? Wouldn't he be sick?"

"If he's drinking that tea," Billy shrugged. "He might not be."

"I'll check with him." Ned rubbed his hand over his chin, still watching Albert's troubled sleep. He had a fear in his eyes that Abigail felt in her whole body. "We definitely don't have poppy or leeches, but they should have something at the fort with the physician. I'll talk to Capt. Jacobs."

Abigail was already on her feet, pulling a heavy cloak over her dress. "I'm going with you." Ned opened his mouth to protest but Abigail silenced him. "He is my husband."

"I'll watch him," Billy offered.

Again, Ned looked to Abigail for confirmation. "Thank you," she whispered to Billy. At that moment, Abigail felt incredibly small. On the bed was the man who saved her from poverty and rejection. At the door was the man who would plead for her husband's life. Sitting on the bench at the table was the man who had saved her life and now seemed to always be there with an answer for her and a helping hand before she could even ask for it. She had a whopping four students learning to read and write, and otherwise she could not quite ascertain her own place in the colony. She wasn't even sure what place she held in their marriage. She certainly wasn't giving him children, and as a minister's wife, she spent more time studying the books that influenced Albert's beliefs than actually helping him provide his ministry. She had never felt more useless and out of place, not even when she was wasting away in Philadelphia.

After a moment Abigail realized they were all waiting on her. She pulled her scarf back over her head and marched out the door, into the blowing snow.

* * *

When Abigail returned to the tent, Lt. Swann hot on her heels, she had tears in her eyes, though it could have been the stinging cold that turned her cheeks and nose red, leaving her sniffling and brushing moisture off her face. Billy stood abruptly and Abigail brushed past him.

"He's still asleep," Billy offered. Abigail only nodded, her attention fully on Albert.

"Mrs. Locke, you should take a few things and sleep in the women's barracks this evening." Lt. Swann pulled his tricorner off his head and worked his between his hands.

"No," she replied in a soft but firm voice, still holding Albert's hands and studying him intently.

"I understand that you're scared-"

"No!" Abigail's voice rose and cracked. "I cannot just leave him."

Billy had at least a dozen answers, none of which were his place to speak. Repressing the impulse to take over was more difficult than it had been in a long time.

"You won't," Swann said. "I'll stay here and watch him overnight while you get rest."

This gave Abigail pause until her face pinched. "No, the captain said he couldn't spare any Marines, and you have a job to do."

"What about convicts?" Billy spoke the question before he could remind himself that it wasn't his place and probably an idea already rejected by Jacobs.

"My thoughts exactly," Swann replied. "Lizzie and the other housekeepers get unsupervised work in the houses. There's no need to send them to clean empty houses, least of all in this weather, and as the executive officer, I have the authority to re-task them. Mrs. Locke, would you be amenable to this?"

Abigail's face ran from surprise to consternation. She wanted to say no, but couldn't think of a good enough reason. Billy recognized the expression. James Flint wore it often, usually in the company of Silver or himself. She finally nodded her consent.

On Swann's instruction, Billy spent his day quietly recruiting help. Jacobs hadn't expressly forbidden anyone from helping the Lockes, but neither Billy or Swann thought the man would appreciate his executive officer and a convict circumventing his edict.

The man will live or die. I will not put undue strain on my own men when our resources are already short.

Billy had worked for his share of bastards, hell, he had been the bastard, but this was as cold as the winter storm blanketing their little pocket of civilization. It was one thing to make that call, and something else to make that call to the man's wife. When Swann relayed the commandant's words, Billy forgot himself with an incredulous, "What the fuck?"

He covered and stacked three plates for supper and ducked out of the mess tent, trudging through the blistering cold wind back to Abigail. He rapped his knuckles against one of the wooden poles supporting the little canvas awning that covered the tent door. The face that greeted him was unexpected.

Lizzie pursed her lips at him and took the plates with a harrumph. "'Bout time. I thought I was going to go without tonight."

Billy followed her through the door, but a quick assessment confirmed that Abigail was not there. "Did she already retire for the night?"

"Retire?" Lizzie arched a brow at him and chewed on a hunk of brown bread. "She said she'd be back before evening rations. I've been here all day." The hair on the back of Billy's neck rose. A low groan came from Albert, but Lizzie was still busily chewing on the bread. She pushed the food around one of the other plates with her crust of bread. "Planning on having supper with her while her husband dies?"

He took a step toward the door, ready to storm out to the women's barracks and confirm that surely, surely, Abigail had decided to rest during the day, and he would find her there, already awake, anxious and sullen. He paused long enough to still Lizzie with a withering look. "Just stay here." She rolled her eyes and took another bite of crust.

Abigail was not in the women's barracks. He found Swann behind the mess tent, quietly directing some of the more junior Marines on the proper way to clear snow off the paths. Swann recognized him, then blanched at the sight of Billy thundering toward him.

"She's gone," Billy barked.

It only took a breath for the questions to cross Swann's face and leave. "Check the stables," he ordered the corporal, who jogged off with one of the others without the momentary pause for question.

Instant and willingness obedience to all orders. That's what his first captain had said. It was the foundation of the king's sea service. For the first time in his life, memory of those words filled him with confidence.

Swann, for his apparent youth and slim stature, slipped into command befitting any Marine. He lead Billy away, except further into the powdered woods, not toward the commandant's tent. He cast a glance around, then, deciding it was safe, spoke. "You are absolutely sure she's gone?"

"Yes," Billy nodded. "She knows the way to the fort."

"Right." One more quick glance to confirm they were alone. "We'll go on foot. She won't get far in this mess on horseback."

Blood rushed through Billy's veins, spurring his heart to action. It was a kind of action he hadn't felt in a long time. "What about Jacobs?"

"He can't stop me from mounting a small search for a missing citizen." Ned Swann straightened his shoulders. "As our most experienced tracker, I'm ordering you to accompany me."

This raised both of Billy's eyebrows. "I'm not-"

"I don't care."

* * *

Abigail bundled her coat tighter around herself and scooted closer to the fire. She checked the weight of the heavy blade tucked into her skirts before removing her hands to warm them against the flames.

"There, I told ya it'd be better." One of her new companions grinned at her from his felled tree trunk seat across from her. The other sat adjacent, silent and staring between Abigail and the fire pit. A large brimmed hat hooded his eyes and a long, unruly beard obscured most of his face, but she could sense just enough of his stare to send chills down her spine.

After her horse fell, she dismounted and tried to lead her on foot, until a close gunshot spooked her. Abigail had been too tired to fight, and even slipped on the icy path. The fall had sprained her wrist and frustrated her staggered attempt to get to the fort. Within minutes, the trappers who had fired the shot materialized from the dark gray woods. They offered her a warm place to sit through the night. Given her options and the utterly implausibility of her escaping, she thanked them and let them lead her to their camp, against every instinct in her body screaming for her to run.

The trapper across from her - a burly man with a red beard and a fur hat to match his patchwork fur coat who introduced himself as Otis - passed a tin mug to his friend, LeBlanc, who took a sip and then offered the mug to Abigail. She shook her and offered what she hoped was a polite smile.

"C'mon, girl," Otis urged her with a yellow, toothy grin. "You've got to be thirsty. This will warm you up some." He winked at her. LeBlanc was still holding the mug out, unblinking. She accepted it and took a sip. Warm was an understatement: the foul liquid burned from her tongue down her throat. Otis chortled merrily at the face she made. Even LeBlanc's lip turned up ever so slightly. She passed the cup back.

"Thank you." Her voice cracked and she tucked her hands back inside her coat. They were near the river that paralleled the trail to the fort for most of the journey, near enough that she could hear the water still running. The fire pit and their seats were covered by canvas stretched out from a rock formation that, unless she was mistaken, formed a small cave. With enough furs and firewood in the pit, it would be warm enough, but going to sleep near these two had all the markers of monumental stupidity.

Like traipsing away from Camp Jackson with a handful of hardtack, a stolen horse, and only a vague memory of the trail that would lead her to the better-supplied fort, in the midst of a heavy snow without telling a soul. Smart.

"So," Otis poured more of that vile drink from a flask into the mug, "what exactly is a lady like yourself doing wandering the woods all by your lonesome in a storm?"

LeBlanc was looking at her again. She cleared her throat, and shifted her weight a little farther from LeBlanc. "My husband is sick. I'm going to the fort for help."

Otis poked at the fire with a stick, stirring up sparks and ash. Abigail briefly worried that the makeshift tent might catch, but the fabric was too damp from the snow. Smoke curled under the material and out into the clouds. "Lucky man, to have such a fearless little wife looking after him."

She didn't like the way he was referring to her, or the way both of them were so carefully watching her. Abigail wondered if this is how a rabbit feels when cornered by dogs. "Well, I appreciate your hospitality and help, but I'm feeling much better and really should be on my way." She stood. They stood with her.

"Don't be silly. We'll escort your ourselves tomorrow morning, first thing. Right?" LeBlanc nodded once. "Sit back down. Just be sweet, and everything will be fine."

Despite the icy air, sweat was accumulating on her palms. Alright, this was bad. Perhaps as bad as it was on Lowe's ship. Maybe worse, it was hard to say. She was about as trapped here as she was on a pirate ship. She wrapped her palm around the hilt of the knife in her skirt.

Abigail lunged in an attempt to dart away, but LeBlanc was faster. A lanky arm snaked around her waist and yanked her back, nearly off her feet. She screeched and kicked, but it was for nothing.

"Easy, easy," LeBlanc breathed into her ear. She could hear Otis laughing, until both men went silent.

Abigail stilled when she realized they were both distracted. She turned to see Billy standing at the edge of the clearing. He looked tired, dirty, and dangerous. She blinked rapidly, but he was still there. Something hard and cold bumped against her temple. LeBlanc had leveled a pistol on her, and Billy looked unarmed. His eyes kept flickering to her, but he kept his face an expressionless mask.

Billy held up his hands and shrugged bashfully. "Sorry, mates. I saw the fire."

Otis brought a rifle to his shoulder, but kept it pointed toward the dirt at Billy's feet. "This ain't a party. Fuck off."

"Maybe," Billy kept one hand raised and slowly slid the other inside his jacket, "I can make it worth your while?" He pulled out a small bag of coins and held it up.

LeBlanc's feet, his entire body, were shifting back and forth. The hand around her waist tightened. He and LeBlanc exchanged a look, and Otis shook his head. "Sorry, no. Move on, this one's ours."

"Right." Billy tipped his head, then tossed the bag toward Otis. "Catch."

What happened next happened so fast, Abigail later had to remember it over and over before she pieced it all together. While both Otis and LeBlanc were looking at the bag, Billy shot his hand out to the rifle in Otis's arms and snatched it back, bringing Otis behind it. The punishing crack of Billy's fist against Otis's chin was muffled by the rifle shot. Abigail screamed, at first believing Otis pulled the trigger, but it was LeBlanc who jerked and stumbled backward.

LeBlanc still had his arm around her waist, dragging her down with him. She struggled to free herself, but even shot across his other shoulder, he had the strength to keep her. As she struggled, her cries turned to snarls. His hands were no longer just his, but those of Lowe's crew, gleefully tossing her about like a piece of meat. Fingers bruised and yanked at her hair, sending her over the edge.

Not like this. Not again. All she could see was Ned Lowe's vacant, dead eyes. She could hear Otis's sinister laugh over the fire. She could feel hot, rancid breath down her neck. Instead of fear, she felt anger. Rage burned white hot through her. Her hand holding the knife had disentangled from her skirts. His grip had moved from her waist to her throat, knotting her hair along with it. As he clamped down, crushing against the delicate structures in her neck, she pushed the knife forward with all the strength she could muster.

She finally saw his eyes. The darkness around his pupils shrank against the white. He was utterly stunned, before his face crumpled in pain. Something warm and sticky was covering her hand. He shoved her off by her throat, finally releasing her to the frozen ground. Abigail rolled to her knees and pushed up. In the darkness and orange fire light, she could see deep reddish blood dripping down her hand. LeBlanc was gasping, shallow and wet, and clutching a bloody mess where the hilt of her knife still stuck out from his gut. Had she done that?

Hands found her shoulders, sending her screaming and scrambling away, until she heard Lt. Swann's voice. "Mrs. Locke! Abigail, it's me! It's just me."

Abigail stopped her escape attempt long enough to wonder what the hell he was doing here. "Ned?"

A crashing, followed by shouted curses and splashing rose up from where the woods descended into the turbulent river. Abigail jumped to her feet, just steps behind Ned, running to the sound. Otis was of a size with Billy, not as tall to be sure, but close enough and heavier.

Ned broke past the clearing first, but Abigail was so close she collided with his back. In their struggle, Billy and Otis had wrestled right into the shallow, rapid, rocky waters. The exchange of blows was coming slower, less effective as they slipped and sank into the enveloping cold. Otis landed one despite this, a lucky toss of his impressive weight that cracked Billy across his jaw. Billy crumpled into the water. Abigail heard herself scream.

The distraction turned Otis's head a breath before Ned swung the butt of his rifle, catching Otis clean across his face. Blood, spittle, and maybe a tooth flew out, preceding Otis's tumble face-down into the water. Ned shot an arm out just in time to stop Abigail from hurtling herself down the embankment and into the water. Billy was already back on his feet and splashing back to land. He managed to get back up with help from Ned and Abigail, but only made it a few steps before his feet stumbled and shivering rippled into quakes.

"C'mon," Ned grunted under the weight of Billy slowly losing consciousness, "we have to get him back to the fire." Together, stumbling and dragging, they managed to reach their destination. The icy water on his clothes was soaking through Abigail's heavy wool coat, adding an extra bite to the already freezing air. "Wait, wait." Ned held on, stopping Billy from crumpling to the makeshift bed of furs and leaves under the semi-shelter of rocks and canvas. "He'll freeze to death within hours if we don't get the wet clothes off him."

Only the briefest flash of impropriety crossed Abigail's mind before she joined Ned in yanking off Billy's coat, then shirt, then boots. Everything but his small clothes came off, inspiring totally uncontrolled shaking. As they tucked the large furs around him, Billy was mumbling protests, though it might have been mostly nonsense. His giant hand grabbed Abigail's and for the briefest of moments, his blue eyes focused and cleared, focusing on her. He opened his mouth, but his eyes quavered and she lost him. His hand was still locked around hers.

"I hate to ask this of you," Ned was looking toward LeBlanc's finally still body, "but I need you to stay here and help him get warm. I'll take care of…everything else."

The blood on Abigail's hands was rubbing off on Billy's. "No," she replied, "I should-"

"No." Ned's voice rose and his eyes flared. "I can take care of it. I know he's a convict, but he seems to have a soft spot for you. I'll be close enough to hear you if you call out."

Abigail shifted on top of the furs, positioning herself next to Billy's long form. His eyes were shut and his teeth chattering. She had to fight the smile at the idea that she might be in danger with him. "I'm not afraid. He wouldn't hurt me."

She didn't see Ned pause to study her before he nodded smartly and set off to clean up the unspeakable mess Abigail had a direct hand in. She pushed the thoughts back and buried them, instead choosing to focus all her energy on thinking warm thoughts as she pulled another fur over herself and Billy.

It wasn't long before the sounds of Ned working through the brush faded and Billy's staggered breathing evened out and slowed. The steady thump in his chest lulled her into a deep, heavy sleep.

* * *

This was Billy's most favorite dream. Everything was warm and soft, and the gentlest trace of rose water drifted into his nose, but not enough to overwhelm the distinctly feminine scent he couldn't put a name to. Her hair was exactly as silky as it was the last time he had his hands brushing through it.

They were on the mizzenmast, swaying with the sea, reaching for each other to pull ever closer together. He pulled her closer, ducking his head to trace his lips down her jaw and into the curve of her neck. Her chest rose and fell in rapid beats against him. She was making quiet little whimpers and gasps in time with each suck and pull at the tender skin he found.

He wanted her closer, but there was something different this time. His hands found only layers and layer of material. The air didn't have the familiar, refreshing scent unique to the open ocean. It bit at his skin and in the distance he could smell a fire.

Fire is wrong on a ship. Only in the mess was there ever a small, contained fire. He shouldn't smell fire. Fire and pine. The fire made him frown and pull back. Her tiny hands balled into fists on his shirt, pushing him away as best she could. The small, happy noises she'd been making were turning into to quiet "no's." That wasn't good at all.

"Billy, please wake up."

In an instant, the pleasant, hazy comfort of his dream vanished. In its place, he was at once too hot and too cold. He was encased in layers of furs that made his skin itch. Only one of his hands was free from the prison of blankets, and it was wrapped around a small waist. Under his fingers he could trace the taper of a woman's hips beneath yet more clothing. His nose and lips were burrowed against a smooth neck and dark, chestnut hair cascaded in loose, rosy waves he wanted to be buried in.

Confused, he pulled back and forced his eyes to focus. A pale face was looking up at him, and he only felt more confused.

"Abigail?" When she nodded, he noticed the dark, purplish shadows around her throat. He jerked back like he'd been burned, tangling in the mess of furs and old blankets. Abigail grimaced and called for him to stop, but only cracking the back of his head against the rocks stopped his retreat.

Abigail disentangled herself and scrambled on hands and knees - they were definitely in a small cave formed by boulders, not high enough for either to stand - reaching for him, but stopping short. "It's okay, it's alright. Do you remember what happened?"

They had to find Abigail. He and Lt. Swann had snuck out of the camp lightly armed and moving fast. They found the horse she took easily enough, then followed the trail until they saw the two men she encountered. Billy had wanted to rush in headlong, but Swann had a more tactical approach in mind. Swann lived up to his insistence that he could pick off a fly from a fruit bowl at distance. He managed to clip the long-haired trapper in the shoulder and miss Abigail. Billy knew he fought the larger bearded man. They tussled, Billy's sore jaw and bruised torso were a testament to that.

The end of the fight came back in bits and pieces. They must have fallen into the river. Billy had fallen and smacked his temple against a rock. The other man had been close to finishing him off, but the rest was a blurry mess in his memory.

"Where are my clothes?" he croaked.

Abigail's face lit up and colored. "Oh, um, by the fire." She pointed to where his things were carefully arranged, spread out to facilitate faster drying, close enough to the fire but not exposed to the snow that had only recently stopped falling.

He felt slightly better once he had a shirt and pants back on, but Abigail was still watching him like someone might watch a horse that hasn't been broken yet. She also still bore those awful bruises on her neck. He remembered the spike of fear he felt when the shot rang out and Abigail went down with the other man, and then the blind rage that apparently sent Billy right into the water.

"Where is-?"

"He went ahead," Abigail answered. "He said we should wait here until he gets back, but I think we should head toward the fort as soon as you're feeling up to it."

Billy's mind was still piecing together his memories and their current situation, but it was steady enough now for him to notice the dark stains down the front of Abigail's dress and the ends of her sleeves. The mess on her hands could have been mud, or something else.

"That trapper hurt you?"

"Just this." Her hand ghosted over the bruising. "This," she tugged at her sleeve and tried to cover the stains with her hands, "isn't mine."

"Swann took care of him?" Abigail nodded. "And he left you alone with me?"

"He didn't have much of a choice." Abigail pulled one of the furs across her lap and over her hands. "It was that or leave you alone to the elements. He left me this." She brandished a pistol from God-only-knows where. "Do you believe there are really panthers out here?" She cocked her head and frowned at the reminder of Ned's warning.

Billy pulled one boot on, then removed it. The sole was still damp. Where there really panthers here? He must have been staring at her with his mouth hanging open, because she turned an even brighter shade of red. "Do you even know how to…never mind."

Her lips pursed and she straightened the wrinkles out of the fur covering her lap. "Mr. Gates taught me."

He snorted. He couldn't stop it. Then he dissolved into chuckles that made his eyes water. "Of course he did."

Abigail narrowed her eyes and her chest puffed out. "As if you have any room to find that ridiculous. Would you prefer that you taught me how to shoot and he helped me up the mast?"

This only made Billy laugh harder. He shoulders and long-empty belly shook. He had to press his fingertips to his eyes to stem the tears. "Please," he sniffed a breath between gasping laughs, "please don't ever make me think of that image ever again."

She could only pretend to be peeved for so long before she was giggling, too. "I thought he was dapper."

"He was," Billy's voice dropped off and his eyes fell to the dirt.

Abigail shifted to stretch her legs under the warm coverings, closer to the fire. "How is he? He was so kind."

His chest tightened and the laughter fled his body as quickly as it had appeared. He couldn't look back up at her. His fingers traced a pattern in the dirt. "He's dead."

Her face fell immediately. "I'm so sorry." She fell into silence, chewing on her lip. Billy thought he saw her eyes glisten, but it may have just been the firelight. The growing darkness just outside their shelter confirmed that he had awoken at dusk, not dawn. How long had she been without food or necessities? Had he been asleep all day, or even longer? "May I ask what happened?" She derailed his thoughts.

Billy considered his answer. If he told her, it might lead more questions, questions he wasn't prepared to answer. How would she take learning that Captain James Flint, her stoic rescuer who delivered her safely to the Americas, murdered the kind man who extended his fatherly affection toward her without question? How was he supposed to tell her that the men whose praises she wrote in her journal had turned on each other like dogs?

She was still waiting for an answer, so he steeled himself to tell her the truth, as much as he could. "Flint," his voice cracked, either from emotion or dehydration, "Flint killed him." Abigail took in a sharp inhale. He couldn't look at her while he spoke. "He was leaving the crew. He didn't trust Flint to follow through on his promises. So Flint killed him."

Billy heard her little "Oh," barely above the whisper of a breath. She turned her face to watch the fire. Billy wondered what sort of images she saw in the flames.

To his surprise, she didn't ask for more. Perhaps she just didn't want more bad news about her favorite scalawags. After a few more minutes staring at the fire, she fished a small cloth-wrapped bundle from under her makeshift bed. She held out a chunk of hardtack, which he accepted. The dry biscuit made his mouth feel tacky and heavy, but he was too hungry to care.

"How was my husband?" Abigail asked after chewing and swallowing a bite.

Husband? Oh, right. The reverend. Billy cleared his throat. "Still feverish, but Lizzie was watching over him."

"Lizzie?" Billy didn't miss the note of panic that made her voice quaver.

"Her bark is worse than her bite." Billy chewed another painfully dry bit of tack. "She'd take care of him just to thumb her nose at the owners for not making her one of the housekeepers."

Abigail hummed under her breath. As much as he hated to admit it, Billy's feet were getting cold. He sat further from the fire than Abigail and the chill was settling in as quickly as the sun fell. She pulled one of the furs up and around her shoulders. There was, of course, a practical solution to warding off the cold, one that Abigail hadn't objected to while he was unconscious.

But he was awake now, and that made the prospect more complicated.

"I guess it would be silly to head toward the fort right now, wouldn't it?" Abigail was looking directly at him. Her voice still had a raw quality, no doubt from the injuries that animal inflicted on her.

"Probably, yeah."

Abigail was frowning out into the gray darkness. "What if something happened to him and he needs help? There could be more people out here, or panthers."

"Abigail, I think if he encountered a panther, there's not a whole lot either of us could do for him."

She shot him an indignant glare. "It's not funny. Every moment we linger here, Ned could be injured and freezing to death, and is yet another moment my husband is going without any medical care." She clamped her mouth shut, settling back into her nest of bedding with an angry huff. She was starting to shiver.

A quick glance around their tiny shelter revealed a small pile of dried wood near the entrance. He took a few pieces to fortify the fire, but left most of it. If the storm worsened or something kept them from leaving, they would be in a sorry state without dry kindling.

"I'm sorry," he sat with his back against the stone, "I know you're scared, but leaving tonight isn't smart. If Swann isn't back by then, we'll leave at first light."

"Thank you." She was so quiet he barely heard her. She kept pulling the furs and blankets tighter. She was shivering in earnest now.

"You're cold."

"Unfortunately I was not blessed with your natural inclination toward warmth." Her words triggered a gentle memory of his mother calling him her "little oven." Abigail caught the subtle quirk to his lips. "You must have been miserable in all that tropical heat."

"Why do you think I never wore sleeves?" He kept his face placid until she chuckled. "Listen, I know it's not appropriate-"

Abigail snorted. "I think you and I are past appropriate." She shifted again so her back was now against the stone wall, making more room for him.

Billy didn't need much more of an invitation than that. He gathered the material that made up the other bed and dragged it over. They both stayed seated, shoulder to shoulder. This was good. This was a safe way to share warmth, until he remembered a cool night outside the Carolinas in a similar position. Judging by the flush of pink to her cheeks and ears, and her intense study of the fire, she remembered, too.

After so many years, everything he'd done and seen, all he wanted was to loop an arm out and pull her closer. She's married, he reminded himself. She's married, she's married, she's married. Not that that slowed down any of the married people he'd ever spent time around, but Abigail was different. She wasn't a pirate, and she wasn't some bored lady-of-the-house out for dalliances.

She was Abigail. And she was now resting her head against his shoulder. Sleep overtook her quickly, and he didn't mind it one bit.


	5. Chapter 5

The first thing Abigail did when they made it back to Jackson was rush to her husband's side. Her battered shoes sunk in the mud left over from melting snow, staggering and slipping her pace, yet she pressed forward. Her attempt to reach the fort had taken too long already and borne almost no fruit. Ned had met them on the path with little more than a small package of dried poppy and a bottle of brandy, which, in the wrong hands, was more likely to be drunk than distilled into surfeit water.

She could hear the arguing before she even reached the tent. She recognized Lizzie's voice, but not the other.

"He says he doesn't want it."

The male voice harrumphed. "He will like being able to sit up."

"He doesn't like the spells."

He scoffed again. "It's not a spell. He prays, I pray."

They abruptly stopped when Abigail pushed through the tent door. Albert was still abed, but awake. Sweaty and flushed, but awake. The image of finding him dead by the time she returned had followed her all the way back to the camp. The relief that washed over her heart was painful.

Lizzie sighed and pushed away from her seat next to the bed. "Oh, thank God. May I please be excused?"

Abigail couldn't answer the question. She was studying the third person in the small tent. He was hunched at the shoulders and his long hair hung loose, shiny and full and silver all the way through. It stood in sharp contrast to his weathered, copper skin. She hadn't found occasion to meet any of the native prisoners, a fact that now slapped her in the face. He was grinding something in a pestle, with no acknowledgment that someone else had entered the tent.

"Oh, um," Lizzie, for the first time in Abigail's experience, looked abashed, "this is Kanuna. Nobody here knows more about healing than he does. I took the liberty of, um…" She actually blushed and looked down at her folded hands.

"Thank you," Abigail responded quickly. "He's awake." She replaced Lizzie at Albert's side, taking his hand and smoothing the damp, limp hair from his temple. "Albert, how are you feeling?"

He whispered something she couldn't make out, but he nodded and squeezed her hand. His eyes turned to Kanuna, who was now mixing the ground herbs into hot water.

"What is that?"

Kanuna stood, surprisingly smooth and easy for his apparent age, and brought the teacup to Abigail. "It's squirrel tail, a little bit of buck brush. See?" He showed her the cup and gestured to Albert. "He's already feeling better."

"Squirrel tail?" Abigail understood Albert's reluctance to drink the mixture.

"It's yarrow, ma'am," Lizzie's voice returned. "His people have different names for the plants around here. It's all just herbs and plants, though."

Kanuna patted his stomach with his free hand. "It helps here. Burn this," he held up the tin of tea Captain Jacobs had gifted to Albert. "It's no good."

Abigail took the cup and offered it to her husband, but he shook his head. "No, no." She tried again, lifting his head from his pillow but he continued to refuse.

"He thinks I'm doing magic," Kanuna offered. He was busily gathering up his supplies and returning the kettle to the fire.

Lizzie rolled her eyes, an impulse Abigail shared but repressed. She set the teacup on the bedside table and folded her hands over Albert's. "Albert, it's just plants. They will not have any surfeit water ready for at least another day, and if this will help you keep water and a bit of food down, for the love of God, please drink it." He croaked out another refusal, and a string of excuses and platitudes that he would just wait.

Abigail felt exhaustion in her bones. Her dress was still stained from that awful trapper and the thing she did to him that she hadn't yet brought herself to fully admit. She was so hungry she felt nauseous. Billy and Ned were no doubt facing repercussions for leaving the camp to find her, which was weighing on her conscience possibly more than the dead man. There was yet another layer of feelings she spent the return trip furiously stamping down involving the easy comfort of a certain obscenely tall ex-pirate. All of this on top of the unquenchable fear that she'd return to find her kind, generous husband dead.

Abigail was too damn tired for this.

"You know, for an educated, liberal man of God, you are passing some truly incredible judgments right now." He frowned but didn't respond. "Fine." She pushed her soiled sleeves up to her elbows and rose. "Lizzie? I know you must be beyond exhausted, but I could use an extra set of hands and I don't want to trouble Mr. Kanuna any further."

"Just Kanuna," he corrected without looking up from his meticulous organization of the various dried leaves and other sundry items.

Lizzie was at her side with an expectant expression. Abigail didn't have the energy to wonder why the woman was being so helpful. "Hold this, please." She handed the still-warm cup to Lizzie. "Albert, if you won't drink it willingly, I'm going to hold your mouth open and force it." He recoiled, sinking back into the pillow. "Oh, you don't want that? Then please drink it. We can discuss it later, when you're well."

Albert blanched and blinked at her. Lizzie cocked her head and Abigail thought she caught the ghost of humor in her eyes. "Alright," his voice cracked. Abigail tried to not melt with sympathy. Even his lips were split and peeling from dehydration. Lizzie passed her the cup without needing prompting and this time Albert blessedly sipped it down. Abigail turned to thank Kanuna but he was gone. On the table he'd left a few packets to make more of the healing beverage, next to the tin of rotten tea. Albert's eyes were already drifting closed, but his sleep looked restful, a thing Abigail longed for above anything else.

"C'mon," Lizzie took Abigail by the elbow, "Hannah will watch him tonight."

Leaving so soon after she got back galled her. "I couldn't possibly-"

"Yes, you could." Lizzie's eyes traveled down Abigail's dress. "You look like you went to Hell and back, and you won't be doing anyone any favors if you collapse and we have to take care of you, too. Again. We do have jobs to do, you know."

Abigail couldn't argue that, and she was too tired anyway.

The next morning, she sent a prayer up thanking whomever sent mercy to Lizzie's soul. If she had not slept through the night, she wasn't sure she would be able to survive this awful day. At the end of the morning formation, Jacobs dismissed everyone to their work. As the foreman - now promoted to overseer - marched the slaves and natives off, Jacobs released the prisoners. All except Will James were to turn to their normal job assignments.

She stood outside Captain Jacobs' tent, shoes sinking into the mud, stoutly ignoring every look from each passerby, and wincing at each spiked shout or the slam of a fist against a wooden desk. On the Siren, she'd heard the men refer to something called an "ass chewing." This was an ass chewing.

The tent flap burst open. Billy slowed when he saw her, then looked away and strode off before she could ask. Jacobs followed, and didn't look at all surprised to see her.

"In," he growled. He seemed to catch himself and held the canvas doorway open for her to pass.

She had to squeeze past him through the small entryway. He didn't leave much room for her, and followed her so close she almost felt nipping at her heels. Ned was standing at the desk, his arms folded carefully behind his back. He had put on one of his better uniform coats for the occasion.

Jacobs brushed past her and leaned over his desk, his weight on his hands and his dark head drooped. He looked as exhausted as she felt.

"I'm so sorry," Abigail started in a single breath. "This is entirely my fault-"

"Yes, it is." Jacobs lifted his near-black eyes to her. Abigail froze. She felt a subtle stiffening in Ned's posture beside her. Jacobs cocked his head, as if waiting for more. She felt compelled to keep prattling on.

"They only left the camp because of me. I would ask that you please consider punishing me in their stead."

Jacobs straightened before settling into his chair. "Lt. Swann, please make the preparations for this afternoon." Ned hesitated, his eyes slid from Abigail back to Jacobs. Jacobs raised a single brow. "Am I going to have to repeat myself?"

With one last sidelong glance at Abigail, Ned snapped his heels together and took a single backward step before turning and leaving her alone with Jacobs. She felt the weight of his absence heavy on her shoulders.

Jacobs eyes were razor sharp obsidian, lined at the corners from time in the sun and age. This was the most interaction she'd had with the man and she found him frankly terrifying. He looked older than she had first estimated. Natural grey peppered through his chestnut hair, and speckled the shadow of a beard already present on his jaw. He sat back in his chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "Do you understand the battle I'm leading here?" Abigail didn't have an answer, fortunately he knew that. "We are barely a platoon of Marines, responsible for convicted criminals, prisoners of war, and even the slaves owned by the Rowling and Kent estates. We are outnumbered in a way that made every other commander immediately turn down this opportunity. We are the only law in one of the furthest reaches of His Majesty's lands." He stood and paced to a large map he had mounted. "Here," he rapped a knuckle against a marker on it, "is where we are. Just over this mountain range, where your quaint church will sit, is French territory. Lt. Swann tells me your little party had a run-in with some trappers. Who were they?" The expression on his face made it clear he knew the answer to that, too. "Dutch? French? Perhaps some Chickasaw half-breeds?"

"I don't know," Abigail whispered to the floor.

"Of course you don't. You have absolutely no idea who their people are, and what sort of retribution we may face here. Are you aware that our native guests are Cherokee? Do you know what the Crown's relationship is with that tribe?" Abigail shook her head. "They're allies, but these refused to leave with their tribe when we claimed this land. My point," he resumed his seat while Abigail was still standing, "is that you don't have the first clue what we're facing out here. You scuttled away in the dark of night as if you were running off to your cousin's house on the other side of the wood, all because you couldn't follow instructions. We live and die here by orders, Mrs. Locke, and you disobeyed mine. Because of you, I could have lost my executive officer and one of my most productive convicts, not to mention anyone else who may be inspired to flit away into the woods as you all did."

Abigail could feel herself shrinking. He never took his eyes off her. At least he wasn't yelling. She didn't think she could have stood up to that.

"Lt. Swann and Mr. James were obligated by honor to see you safely returned. They had the common sense to leave the camp quietly and almost no one even noted their absence due to the storm."

Abigail let out a breath and sent her thanks up that she had not caused a significant disturbance.

"However, the events of this week will be common knowledge one way or another, and I cannot let that go. Every single person living here must know that we are the law, and disobedience will not be tolerated."

There it was, the dread, back with a vengeance. If she could go just one day, a single day, without bone-grinding tension and fear, she would sell her soul to the Devil himself.

"You will be present after supper for the sentencing and punishment." His words brooked no room for so much as a question.

She turned to leave and paused at the tent entrance. "Captain Jacobs?" He lifted his eyes from the paperwork he'd already set to on his desk. "The tea you gave Mr. Locke, I believe it was the only thing he ate or drank that wasn't from the mess."

Jacobs tapped his quill against the paper in front of him, no doubt leaving splotches. "You believe he was made sick by something he consumed?"

"It stands to reason." He only blinked at her impassively. She continued anyway. "Perhaps you should make sure none of your other personal food items have gone bad."

"Thank you for your concern. Food rot is a common problem in these conditions." He said nothing more and returned to his work. She was dismissed.

She spent the rest of her day by Albert's side. He was sitting up, at last, and able to swallow an entire bowl of broth and even a crust of moistened bread. He was still a bit too dazed to realize there was anything wrong with her other than sleepiness from her little journey. Whatever Kanuna had cooked up was settling Albert's stomach and for that, she would be forever in his debt.

That was well enough for her. She preferred him relaxed with color returning to his cheeks. It was the only thing keeping her from falling apart over whatever havoc Jacobs had in mind for two people who had only tried to help her.

It would be a long day.

* * *

 _Billy ran his thumb across the smudged ink of the pages he'd been skimming. These particular pages gave him pause, and he read them with a small, secret smile on his lips. Most of her writing gave him a warm sensation that, in any other person in any other situation, might be identified as fondness, but Billy had no time for that sort of thing. Abigail's journal entries were a steady progression from terror to affection, even hinting at some of the sentiments she'd expressed that final evening up in the mizzen. Even her handwriting eased from overly stiff, almost tearing the page with the tip of a pen, as if she didn't trust her own hand._

 _The entry he kept re-reading was lighter, looping, and messy from the drag of her left palm over the words. Her last few entries detailed first her surprise at the congeniality of the crew, and then expressed curiosity, even sympathy, for that which was the pirate way of life. She questioned the honor of a people who could so willingly subject others for their own ends, and even suspicions from her time with Lowe's crew that English officials had been accepting bribes from pirates. That was the only explanation for her initial abduction._

 _The captain hadn't been surprised at all, and greeted Lowe like an old friend…._

 _It would be a heavy accusation in an English court, coupled with a few scathing comparisons between Flint's men and the Naval officers who let her be taken by monsters as if she were nothing more than a sack of flour. The courts might not care about her sweet recollections of the men's kindness, and they certainly wouldn't care about the page he was stuck on, though all of it would surely ruin her among her peers. But he could enjoy it._

 _Lucky for him, she started each entry on a fresh page, even if she made multiple entries a day. She didn't name him, and she danced around it in a way that confirmed for him that she was as unsure of her feelings as he had been, and she had noticed him as much as he'd noticed her._

 _The man I thought must surely be a beast in human form has proved to be the most gentle of all, second only to the shockingly refined Captain Flint in his manners. Though he is clearly years and oceans away from whatever home he came from, he still speaks with a keen intelligence that suggests a thorough education. I have seen him more than once engaged in debates with other crewmen that, when he is lucky, turn from simple discussion of the task at hand to vigorous tete-a-tete over all manner of subjects. It feels so strange. My first encounter with him was wrought with blood and violence. He had been nearly naked, wielding weapons like a barbarian, and smelling of soot and saltwater. To see him now, I might not believe that is the very same man. Most importantly, he is kind and patient, and not just to me, though sometimes I think I rival some of his men in competition for his patience. Perhaps I observe him more than the others, though I feel him watching me when I'm looking away. He's always there when I'm on the deck, even when it's not his watch. I thought I could never be comfortable in his presence. He is much too large to be a gentleman. Before I knew any of this crew, I saw only the violence they inflicted while taking Lowe's ship. In such a short time, I find that the world is far more complicated than I ever understood. He is…_

 _She stopped there with an ink blot. The rest of the entry abruptly shifted in subject before she closed it out. He wondered what else she was going to say, but her reticence to truly divulge left the finer points a mystery to him. None of her journal writings were so personal that they couldn't be said in correspondence with a friend, something he hoped would protect her from the fallout of Flint's orders._

 _He checked the back page of the entry and, deciding that no one would miss it, he separated the page from the binding as carefully as possible. His hands looked excessively large and dirty against the delicate, feminine handwriting. He had the same thought when he was tracing the soft white skin between her jaw and her throat, sinking his fingers into her glossy dark hair. He only had that thought for about half a second before other thoughts kept him occupied right up until 7 bells and delaying any longer would have had them descending the mizzen nest together to greet the morning watch. No sense ruining a very, very good evening by embarrassing her._

 _With a surreptitious glance over his shoulder - ridiculous, no one could enter the captain's salon quietly - he folded the parchment and tucked into his pocket. He'd save it among his personal things later._

 _Gates met him on deck with a scowl. "You're really gonna do this?"_

 _Billy stuffed the journal inside his coat and felt his back molars grinding. "Flint's orders were clear." He leaned over the railing to confirm that the ladder was secure and the longboat was waiting._

 _Gates leaned against the railing, close enough so that only Billy could hear. "You do this, you'll ruin her, and we don't even know if they'll want to take a deal. James Flint turns witness for the Crown to bring down Governor Ashe's dealings? What the fuck does his daughter's journal have to do with that?"_

 _Billy shrugged. He didn't want to think too hard on this. "It's not my business. Flint seemed to think it would work. We need to get him out of there and get back-"_

 _"Get back to what?" Hal was looking up at him as if Billy was telling him he found a mermaid. "You do realize that no matter how this plays out, he will never stop fighting them. Never. If England pulled up all stakes in the West Indies tomorrow and never returned, Flint would take his war to London."_

 _"So what? If we get what we want here and he leads a charge to the King himself, who the fuck cares? Let him go. We will have won where we needed to."_

 _Hal softened, almost pleading. "A life. My lad, you can have a life." Billy shuffled and leaned his weight against the railing until he was eye level with Gates. "She's still at her father's house. Go get her, take her to the first church you can find, marry her, and leave. Just go. Take her to Boston or Savannah, fucking St. Augustine, just go."_

 _He scoffed, then laughed, then sobered at the desperate expression on his oldest friend's face. "You can't be serious?"_

 _"Son, everyone noticed."_

 _Billy opened his mouth then closed it, each question more ridiculous than the last. "You think I should march up to the governor's house, and what? Abscond with his daughter out the window and ride off with her and hope that when he sends half the colonial regulars after us and puts a bounty on my head the size of the Urca haul, that we can live a quiet country life? She'll stay home with the children while I'm away merchant sailing?"_

 _"She'd give you beautiful children." Hal grinned at him. "You are a pirate's pirate, Billy. If you can't abscond with the pretty lady, what is the point?"_

 _Three hours later, Billy was standing outside the Governor's mansion. He stayed in the shadows, berating himself over and over again about the utter nonsense Gates had fed to him before coming ashore. This was ridiculous. There was no ending to this story that involved Abigail Ashe, daughter of a lord and territorial governor, willingly running off with a no-account pirate with nothing to his name except criminal charges. Yes, she had turned to him on the Siren. It was an infatuation no doubt brought on by the stress of her situation and maybe the excitement of something utterly different from her regular life. He was a dalliance and to expect her to want more was childish nonsense._

 _Damn Gates for putting voice to these thoughts, a voice so strong Billy had veered off course from his intended destination at some judge's house, and ended up sitting here like a bloody fool for hours._

 _Gates had him wondering about the elusive maybe. Maybe her feelings were more than the end result of stress. He certainly found her attractive, more than pretty. He liked talking to her, answering her questions, consistently impressed by how quickly she learned. She was inclined to his same thoughts about philosophy and politics, and he had yet to find a topic she didn't have an opinion on. She was strong, too. Within a day of her rescue, she was on deck, quietly nosing up to the crew, meeting them with open eyes and mind. To be so wronged and still so willing to trust again was a rare quality. Was it mad to think she felt the same? Her journal entry, still burning a hole in his pocket, showed a mutual interest. The physical response was there. She had wanted him as badly as he wanted her. In Billy's experience, that feeling - the nearly explosive rush of heat and need - never came just because he found a woman attractive. The men mocked and questioned his reticence to visit the brothels, but one evening spent with Abigail Ashe in his arms confirmed exactly why he didn't care to pay for attention._

 _It still didn't seem real. One minute they were talking, the next she was in his arms, pressing her body into his and making the sweetest little noises every time his teeth grazed her lip or her that little space he discovered she liked just between her jaw and her neck._

 _Fuck._

 _He scrubbed his hand down his face. He needed a shave. He needed to deliver this journal to the judge with Flint's message. He needed to get back on the Siren and relegate these memories to the furthest corners of his mind._

 _But maybe, just maybe, she really was as reluctant to leave as she'd said. Maybe she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. Maybe if he knocked on her window and asked, she would put her hand in his and let him take her away. Maybe he could walk away from the pirate cause._

 _A carriage pulled up to the house. A man alighted from the contraption and bounded up the steps to the house. The servant at the door greeted him with warm familiarity and readily welcomed him inside. The curtains were drawn back and with all the light in the house, he could see the comings and goings in the foyer plain as day. The man was waiting by the stairs, making small talk with another servant inside. He was tall and lithe, with dark hair, and looked to be about Abigail's age, maybe a year or two older. His coat was finely made and expertly tailored. It was fashionable in a way that didn't draw attention, but still made him look every inch the young sophisticate. Billy hated him._

 _First Governor Ashe appeared, shaking the man's hand then embracing him in a boisterous hug. The Ashe home had much to be joyful about these days. Then, as Billy feared, Abigail trailed down the stairway. In a new dress, all clean and shiny and free from the grime and salt of the ocean, she glowed. He might prefer her in the cabin boy's clothes, but she was stunning as a proper lady. That was not a woman he could ever dream of touching._

 _The man bowed, kissed her hand, then swept her up in hug. She was grinning and laughing, and so was her father. Whoever this was, he was welcome in the Ashe home. They spoke for a few minutes more, before her father ushered them to the door. The man escorted her to the carriage. She called out to Ashe that they would not return too late. In a chorus of hoof clacks and laughter, they were gone_

 _Billy had weathered worse storms than this. It was a flight of fancy and nothing more. Abigail Ashe was exactly where she belonged, and Billy had to return to his own people. He put the journal in his hands and set off to find that judge._

* * *

Lt. Swann tugged at the rope binding Billy to felled tree that now served as a lashing post.

"Tighter," Billy grumbled under his breath. Swann winced and fought back the argument. He could barely bring himself to look at Billy. If the binding wasn't strong enough, he'd be on his knees before the lashing was complete, or possibly even fight back in a pain-induced haze. Both would call for more lashings.

The prisoners, convicts, and Marines were assembled in formation around the platform that Jacobs used for morning and evening accountability, announcements, and the enforcement of colony law. They hadn't built an arm for gallows. Yet.

Billy had to hand it to the captain: this was a truly English punishment. Billy would be lashed for unauthorized departure from the camp. Swann's punishment was to execute the lashing himself. As he was accountable for a convict leaving the camp, he would be held accountable for the convict's punishment. Few things could truly affect an honorable soldier as much as allowing another man to take the brunt of the consequences for his own leadership failure.

That left Abigail, the other offender. Jacobs couldn't very well tie her, the minister's wife, to the post and lash her, too. Instead, he had two of his Marines, one holding each elbow, keeping her front and center just below the platform. Her punishment would be to watch what was about to happen, knowing she caused it. Good, Billy thought bitterly. Perhaps this would be enough to inspire her husband to spirit her away from this place as soon as he was well enough to travel. They could go be proselytizing Christians somewhere better. Somewhere not populated by criminals and the daily threats the frontier specialized in. Somewhere not around him, so he could go to work forgetting her all over again. Even with mud caking the hem of her dress, a little on her cheek, hair escaping the braided bun at her scalp, she was too damn pretty. Damn, damn, damn.

She wasn't quite struggling against the Marines, but she wasn't pleased with their unwelcome touches. One of those red coated bastards - Houghton? Howland? Howard? - had the audacity to look amused, smiling down his fat nose at her confusion and distress. Billy watched her quickly putting the scene together. Her eyes locked with his and her face crumpled in pain. She opened her mouth and Billy could see the argument before she started. He shook his head just once and Abigail shut her mouth, sucking in a gulp of air down her nostrils. He wanted her to look away, but that would be yet another reason for Jacobs to drag this out. The quicker it was over, the better it would be for all of them. She was a smart lady, she would understand the importance of taking the punishment head-on.

"…without strict adherence to law and order, we are no better than savages." How long had Jacobs been talking? Billy could laugh at the sheer audacity of the man to lecture slaves and natives on law and order, but that wouldn't help either. Somewhere far south of here, Charles Vane was rolling over in his grave. The hanged man inked into his shoulder burned. If he was lucky, that tattoo was high enough to escape today's destruction. But then, when had Billy Bones ever been lucky?

You can't own people. What sort of government allowed people to own other people? What sort of law and order was that? If Vane was turning in the ground over anything, it was Billy's passive acceptance of his lot here. Billy Bones wouldn't tolerate this. There would be plotting, arguing, planning, making allies with everyone who stood to benefit from freedom, of which there were many more here than rightful English citizens. Of course, Billy Bones might also throw them to the wolves as soon as he decided they were more risk than benefit.

Billy Bones was dead, thank God. Will James could take his licks and serve out his sentence in peace. He'd taken them before and no doubt would again. There was no winning this fight, even if they did have the numbers here. There was nowhere for these people to go and dragging them into a fruitless war would make him no better than Flint or Silver, or Billy Bones.

Abigail straightened her shoulders and even from his vantage point, Billy saw the muscles tighten in her jaw. She would bear this as resolutely as any man. Good girl. Smarts, an open heart, and an iron spine. Gates was right, he should have married her.

He didn't have to listen to know that Jacobs was done. The crowd stilled, collectively holding their breath. Abigail's eyes had gone wide and the color drained from her face. He'd taken his share of beatings as a pirate, even torture, but he hadn't endured a flogging since just days before the Walrus attacked his ship and ferried him out of the Navy for good. Perhaps this was some overdue payment for the pirates he'd killed or gotten killed in service to the Crown after everything they did for him.

When the knotted ends of the cat broke his skin, the shocking bolt of pain confirmed that yes, he did deserve this. Ironically, he deserved it for all manner of things he did long before he found himself in chains on a boat back to the American colonies. A mad laugh bubbled and died in his throat, escaping as a strangled grunt against the next lashing. His vision grew blurry as unwelcome, irrepressible tears pooled in his eyes. He could still see her, though. She remained silent, but moisture poured down her cheeks and her shoulders shook.

For her, he would let this happen every day for the next ten years. He would make the same decision all over again, no matter how badly they flogged him. Today could be an overdue comeuppance for the slaves he'd turned his back on. The next one might be on behalf of the man he shot simply to get at Flint.

He lost count of how many times Swann struck him. Frankly, he hadn't been listening when Jacobs laid out his sentencing, or during the impressive ass chewing he dolled out just this morning. He rarely listened to anything Jacobs said. Jacobs could get fucked, and today only confirmed everything Billy had deduced from the first time he set foot in Camp Jackson, and everyday after.

His shoulders were going numb. Unfortunately that numbness didn't extend to the flesh of his back, which, by now, must be cut to bloody ribbons. He let his eyes wander back to her, and Abigail captured his gaze and held it with all the resolution he knew her to possess. Jesus, did she have blood on her? Even his breath felt ragged. Midst the jarring, burning, ravaging pain, Abigail was still there.

She was still there when he finally lost consciousness.


	6. Chapter 6

"That's very good." Kanuna frowned over Abigail's shoulder, studying her work. "Too big for you, though."

Abigail's fingers closed around the strip of wide leather, suddenly self-conscious. In the weeks that followed the lashing, another winter storm blew in, providing ample opportunity to hide in her tent and not face anyone. When that was over, she mustered her courage and faced the camp once more for breakfast. Then she rallied her courage to go back for supper. After that, it got easier.

She didn't see Billy except in quick glimpses as he went to and from his assignments - still working on the chapel, felling trees and preparing them to become the walls of a new building. Per Captain Jacobs, the house would now have to wait. There wasn't much they could do until it stopped snowing, anyway. Hannah remained friendly, and even Lizzie was warming up to her. She smiled and nodded when they passed each other now. Progress.

When Kanuna saw her observing his leathercraft, he had silently handed her a spare piece and pointed at what he was doing, for her to follow. She was there every morning after breakfast, learning how to soften leather, how to shape it, how to carve designs into it, how to sew it, how to make her own patterns. Sewing never came naturally to her, but the resilient material was supple and forgiving in her hands. She found a satisfaction in producing little bits that were actually pretty, or functional, like new straps for a man's chaps, or brow and nosebands for the bridles in the tack barn.

She still loved teaching in the afternoons. The property owners still weren't back from the city, so she was free to gather the interested slaves and their children for lessons, a thing she took special joy in. But the leatherworking was simple and only required her to achieve the desired result. Teaching was a two-way street, but this task was only about what she could do.

The piece she was currently working on had come to her by accident. It was a spare bit cut from a larger piece Kanuna was shaping into an apron for the blacksmith. She hadn't been quite sure what to do with it until she found the little stone in the river where she did laundry. It sparkled up at her, golden and smooth, and painfully familiar. She couldn't place it, but the stone glowed like a cat's eye and she had to have it. She held it in her pocket for days, unconsciously thumbing the stone, until it came to her: Billy had worn a similar gem on a leather strip around his neck, in a sea of brightly-colored and fascinating necklaces. Now he wore nothing around his neck or wrists. She wondered what happened to those bits of jewelry she'd found so foreign, yet perfect for him.

She found herself cutting the piece into a straight, wide strip that would look so right around his wrist. Kanuna was correct, it was way too large for her. The impulse toward shame was fast and hot. She had no business whatsoever crafting a gift of jewelry for a man, let along a convict. But once she started, she hadn't been able to stop. She soaked the leather before drawing and then craving in the geometric lines and shapes Kanuna favored in his designs. She cut even spaces at each end for a strap, then carved three separate strips out of the center of the piece. She braided the strips, working the stone into the center. It was fairly advanced for her, but she couldn't imagine any other way to complete it; the gift for a convict who was not her husband. Her husband who remained quiet and distant since recovering.

"Does Kanuna mean anything in your language?" Abigail kept her eyes on her work.

Kanuna offered her a rare smile, little more than a smirk. "It means, um," he paused, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he searched for the right word. "They say, gren, um, grenouille?"

Abigail tilted her head. "Frog?"

"Yeah, yeah," Kanuna actually grinned. He mimed hopping with his hands and then puffed out his cheeks, "You know, brraaaaa," he made the sound low in his throat, vibrating at the end. Abigail burst into laughter, which Kanuna nodded along with good-naturedly. "They said instead of crying, I made that sound when I was born. So, that's what they called me." Kanuna shrugged and went back to his work.

When Abigail finished her braiding, it would be time to wax the wrap to prevent shrinking or other weathering. Kanuna cleared his throat once and Abigail's head popped up to look over her shoulder. Albert was making his way down the perpetually muddy path with Ned at his side, animatedly talking about something, waving his ever-present Bible in his hand as he spoke. It brought a smile to Abigail's lips. In Ned he had found a regular discussion partner who enjoyed debating theology as much as he did. Abigail tried, but she simply didn't have an interest in the finer points. She enjoyed philosophy to be sure, but whether or not a predestined sinner can find salvation eluded her. How could you believe that all people can find salvation in faith while also believing that some men were determined by God to never find redemption? This caused more arguments than either of them liked, so Albert kept their theological discussions to a minimum.

It made her happy that he had formed such a friendship. She wished he could extend the same kindness to her for her bond with Kanuna, but that was yet another issue they simply didn't speak of. After one argument that escalated to yelling, Abigail dropped it and never picked it back up. It seemed that for all her husband's good intentions for spreading God's love, he had a hard time getting past a deeply ingrained prejudice against the natives.

When Albert saw her at her usual perch on a wooden stool in Kanuna's work area, his face darkened. Ned offered her an apologetic shrug, made his excuse and set off in his own direction. Albert paused on the path, far enough away to avoid any unnecessary small talk with Kanuna. He folded his hands behind his back, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The wide brim of his hat covered his face. Even with the hat, he was still coming home with reddened, sun burned cheeks.

With a sigh, Abigail slid the wrap into a deep pocket in her skirt and departed Kanuna's work tent with a quiet goodbye.

He was already turning back toward their tent when she sidled alongside him. They walked several steps in silence. Albert's nose wrinkled a few times and the muscles at the corners of his mouth twitched, but whatever he wanted to say, he wouldn't speak it. Abigail let her eyes wander around the camp. Almost every day was the same, but with the improved weather came an extra chorus of chopping and hammering as Billy's crew began the real work on the chapel in the distance.

"Are you really that bothered by my work with Kanuna?" Abigail's eyes followed the construction sounds, but there were too many tents in the way. Wherever it was, it was out of sight. "Still?"

She felt him stiffen. He cheeks puffed with the effort to not immediately reply. He held it in until he ushered her into their shared tent and pulled the door flap back down. "A man who does not desire communion with God is a slave to sin."

Abigail plopped on the edge of their bed. She would have rolled her eyes like a petulant child if she didn't think it would hurt his feelings. "Albert, you minister to Marines, and slaves, and criminals. Actual criminals. Kanuna is possibly the least sinful person I know. Honestly-"

"Have you not listened to anything I've said?" His voice rose and a flush brightened his already sun-burnt skin. "A man who chooses to ignore God is depraved. There are no two ways about it. If he was not depraved, he would feel the call."

Abigail's face fell before she wiped her expression into placid curiosity. She hadn't yet confessed to him exactly what happened in the woods on her off-camp adventure. It ate at her, especially when he spoke about sin and Election. If he knew, he might not think so kindly of her.

Albert sat next to her and took her hand. "I'm sorry. I know he's been kind to you." Abigail frowned, but let him go on. It was just as well that he assumed her concern still rested on Kanuna. "He's been kind to us," Albert corrected. "We are all born sinful, you know this. But the Elect recognize this and feel the pull to salvation. Those who do not…" Albert trailed off with an apologetic shrug. "One cannot save a man who does not wish to be saved."

She thought for a moment. She had been working on a counterargument to this, but there was no one for her to parry with the way Albert had Ned, and a small congregation. "What if he does feel God calling him, but not the way we do because he did not grow up surrounded by Christians. What if when he feels God, he believes it's the spirits he was raised to believe in? What if not everyone needs to be saved, the way we think they do?"

They sat in silence. Albert had no answer.

Abigail released his hand and stood, though she had nowhere to go. "Would it be so bad to extend a measure of kindness to him?" Albert's eyes fell to the uneven plank floor. Could you extend that charity to me if you knew? "Some measure of Christian charity? Talk to him. Listen to him. Aren't we supposed to treat our neighbors as we would treat God?"

A rueful smile tilted his lips. "It does not specify which neighbors, does it?" Abigail shook her head. "I believe you have me there."

As Abigail pulled her books from the shelf and prepared her supplies for another afternoon of lessons, she sighed. "Thank you. I only wish I understood your willingness to accept some but not others."

"When I understand it myself, I'll let you know."

* * *

"What do you think?" Billy crossed his arms. He and Marcus stood side by side, observing the men raising the logs that would make up the chapel roof.

"We should be done in a week, maybe less."

"No," Billy shook his head, "the other matter."

Marcus exhaled a slow breath. He cast a glance in the direction of the fields and then back to the hodgepodge of slaves and convicts building the chapel. "I need to do whatever is best for my people. I'm sorry, but your people have never been what's best for my people."

He wasn't wrong. Marcus didn't have to know Billy's history to know that.

"You're right, you have no reason to trust me." Billy scrubbed his hand over his beard. It felt itchier these days, suddenly an unclean annoyance on his face. "Once we finish both buildings, they're going to make me a patroller. I'll have a say in who I take on jobs. I can keep people out of the fields, away from the others."

Marcus narrowed his deep chestnut eyes at Billy. "You do this because… why? You feel guilty? Maybe you want to impress… someone?" Billy turned his attention back to the work at hand, away from Marcus. "I'm not going to risk my people because you have something to prove."

Billy nodded and sucked his teeth. "That's fair."

Marcus moved to return to work, but stopped one last time. "You do right by the people you chose, and we'll see."

* * *

Abigail shifted on the felled log, one of many that served as seats for her husband's weekly services. The crowd was steadily growing from week to week, and the residents of Camp Jackson were more and more interested in participating in study with Albert. It came naturally to him, and seeing him enjoying his work was a balm.

Unfortunately, it wasn't much of a balm to the numbness crawling down her legs from her uncomfortable seat, nor did it help the tension on her spine. She wanted to look behind to the congregation, but there was no need. He wasn't there. She'd seen for herself well enough when she'd gotten up to read. It was the same every week. She kept waiting for Billy to materialize in the back, frowning but present.

Of course he wouldn't be there. It was stupid to hope otherwise. Not only had the man she met aboard the Siren expressed absolutely no inclination toward faith - maybe even outright hostility toward it - but he had taken a lashing for her crime. Why on God's Earth would he support this? She didn't want to see herself, either.

The wrap she'd made for him was still in her pocket, a daily, constant, aching reminder that she had to face him at some point. She owed him a face-to-face apology, at the very least.

But where was he?

The congregants were suddenly off of their benches, lining up to shake Albert's hands and ask questions as they did every week at the end of his service. Abigail jumped in her seat, taken by surprise. Had the service actually ended?

She gathered her book and shawl - it was already too warm for extra layers and spring was still in the future. She went through the motions of shaking hands thanking the congregants, answering questions. As everyone drifted away to enjoy their one day of rest, Albert was already deep in conversation with Ned. They would stay like this until supper and that was just as well. Abigail resolved to find Billy. Today. No more excuses.

First she wandered to the mess tent. Lizzie and a few of the other girls were gathered around a table, gossiping over the watered-down tea rations and a few bits of sailor's biscuits the cook made available between meals. She smiled and acknowledged them, but moved on quickly before Hannah could call her over. She meandered between the various tents the convicts occupied. This earned her a few wry and shocked looks, but nothing else. She certainly couldn't ask for him. That alone would probably inspire Captain Jacobs for another round of lashings.

He wasn't at the nearly-finished chapel, nor the fields. Eventually, Abigail found herself drifting into the tree line. The midday sun filtered into golden spots dappling the greens and browns of the forest floor. She continued walking northwest until she found where the river trickled along its winding trek. The water flowed from a source somewhere further north and deeper into the mountains. She lost track of the distance she walked, but couldn't bring herself to turn back. The idea of spending another Sunday re-reading one of her books while Albert spent the afternoon with Ned, the female convicts gossiped in such a way that she wasn't yet quite welcome, and she was otherwise left to her own devices grated on her. She loved reading, but quietly reading while she pretended to not notice the way she'd been left behind made her feel increasingly frustrated.

Instead, she followed the bubbling water. She came upon an unexpected feature: the creek split. Their little source of life was actually two different creeks that fed together here. To the east, away from the foot of the mountains, the creek was wide and deep. To the west, it babbled, narrow and rocky from a source she couldn't see. She chewed her bottom lip for a moment before surrendering to the impulse. She picked up her skirts and toed into the water. It was cold enough to elicit a small gasp and squeak, and she rushed across the water in three quick steps until she was on the other side and could follow the mysterious stream to its source.

She could no longer hear the sounds of the camp, only the trickling of water, gently rustling leaves, and distant bird chirps. It was cooler in the forest, almost chilly. It was still too early in the season for the swarms of gnats and mosquitoes she could look forward to. It was all downright lovely.

The dirt shore of the little creek gave way to loose rocks and gravel, then larger rocks, then boulders. Abigail lifted her head to discover a pile of boulders blocking her path. It stretched west and up into the mountains, and were stacked on each other nearly 100-feet high in her estimation. The stream trickled out from the massive rocks. Abigail pouted a moment, disappointed by the sudden deterrence, then picked up her skirts in one hand and braced with the other to climb the lowest boulder. From there, she could see a gap between them that was hidden from below.

Hand over hand, she climbed to the next closest boulder. She hissed when her shoe slipped and her knee scraped the rock, even under her skirts, but she didn't slide far. When she made it up the third rock, the crevice revealed itself. It stood a few inches taller than her, and narrow enough that she had to turn at an angle to get through it. The icy water slid around her ankles. She had no choice but to wade into it to squeeze between the rocks.

The light streaming in at the other end of the crevice was bright, brighter than it was where she'd entered. The ground was shimmering, bouncing light from the disturbed water of a pond. A smile lit her lips and she tried to increase her pace, but years of water flow left the rock surface slippery with algae. She needed to see this mysterious body of water, hidden away from man's eyes.

When she finally made it to the opening, the sight that greeted her took her breath away. The little pond was a green and blue circle, bordered by more forest and hills that rose up out of the terrain. Wildflowers of all shades and grasses dotted the shore.

"Christ, Abigail," a familiar voice growled through a heavy exhale.

Abigail squealed and jumped, which lost her her footing on the slippery rocks. She fell in a heap square on her rear with an audible oof.

Billy splashed through the shallow water and into her line of sight. "Jesus, are you alright?" He bent over her, squinting and frowning, searching for any injury.

"I'm fine." She lifted her hands out of the water and shook them off. She pushed a loose lock of hair back from her face, and blinked up at Billy. "What are you doing here?"

He offered her his hands and helped her back to standing. Walking back to Camp Jackson in a soaked dress would be interesting. "What am I doing here?" he parroted back. "What are you doing here? I heard you coming and thought I was gonna have to…" he abruptly shut his mouth. "Nevermind."

Back on her feet, she took a moment to absorb his appearance. His face was clean shaved, or at least it had been as of this morning. His waistcoat was gone, folded up on the shore, and his pant legs were rolled up to his knees. He stood in the cool water barefoot. Had she ever seen him without boots and chaps? It had been so long since she'd last seen his face, his full face, not obscured by a thick beard. He looked years younger, and dear God in Heaven, she forgot exactly how much she liked a strong, square jaw. Without thinking, she reached up to his cheek and ran her thumb across the stubble she found there. "It's you." He stilled, his eyes went wide, and Abigail remembered herself with a start. She dropped her hand stepped through the water - up to her calves here - until she was on the shore. "I'm sorry to sneak up on you. I was just out for a walk and found my way here, I guess."

He didn't speak or follow. Abigail's breath choked when she remembered exactly why she was so nervous to see him. "Right, um, I can go, if you'd like. I won't tell anyone about this place."

An expression she couldn't identify crossed his face. He shook his head and took a few tentative steps closer. "No, it's fine. I should get going anyway. But, you shouldn't stay out here very long alone-"

"I wouldn't stay alone-"

"-it can be very dangerous, especially after dark."

"I'm sorry."

Billy froze midstep, then dropped his head and put his hands on his hips. After a moment of silence that Abigail thought stretched out to eternity, he nodded and raised his eyes to her again. "You have nothing to apologize for." He held up a hand to stop her before she argued. "No, I mean it. He was wrong, to not help you."

"Captain Jacobs had his reasons," Abigail murmured, smoothing her hands over her skirts.

"They weren't good. He could have spared two Marines to ride to the fort." He drifted past her and sank to sit on the moist dirt, where he could let his exposed feet rest in the lapping water. Abigail settled next to him, but pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. "It wasn't your fault."

She wanted to believe him, but she could still feel the horror of the lashing, the sound of the leather splitting his skin, the warmth of the blood that managed to rain down from the whipping post. "Too many people have suffered on my behalf, even when I think I'm doing the right thing."

Something flashed across Billy's face, too quick for Abigail to process or catalog. He blinked and opened his mouth, then changed his mind. He stared out over the still water, eyebrows creased in consternation. "It, um," he cleared his throat, "it takes a lot of people to make those choices. I'm sorry you've been caught in the middle of so many of them."

Here the trees were sparse, creating a little pocket of bright, warm sunshine. It was so warm Abigail toyed with the idea of slipping her still-damp shoes and stockings off and mimicking Billy, but she wouldn't dare.

"Is this where you are every Sunday?" She ventured to look at him again. He was finally relaxed, soaking up the sun and soothed by the water. With his bronzed skin and golden hair, he looked almost as right out here as he did on a ship.

"Yeah." He studied her and gave an abashed shrug. "Sorry."

Abigail replied with an unladylike snort. "I do not expect you to go."

Billy winced in feigned offense. "What? Like I can't be the religious sort?"

"Have you changed that much?" Abigail balked.

He stared at her, the picture of deadly seriousness, until his face broke into a pearly smile. "Yeah, but not in that way."

If she wasn't mistaken, he'd actually managed to get larger since the last time she saw him on the Siren. Not that she minded. She didn't mind that he was warm, making her warmer than she already was in the sunlight. His warmth tingled from where they touched at the shoulder down her arm, through her chest, melting deep and low in her belly in a way she only seemed to feel in his presence. This was, to her memory, the third time they'd sat like this. She had less of an excuse this time. The nagging feeling that she was doing something wrong warred with the almost instinctive pleasure she felt. For good or bad, there was something rough and unsatisfied in her that his nearness soothed.

"Anyway," he said, "I guess I just miss the water." When she didn't reply, he asked, "Sounds stupid, doesn't it? I miss the ocean so I come sit in a pond?"

"No," she shook her head. "At least not as stupid mine." Billy arched an eyebrow at her. "I was only a ship for a few weeks in my whole life, and sometimes I still wake up and think the earth is rocking, like it did."

"I have to remind myself every day why the deck is still."

"Does it ever go away?"

Billy shook his head once, smiling just a little. "I don't think so."

Abigail tipped her head and squinted at the darkest green center of the pond. "How deep is it?"

"Bout 12 feet, I reckon."

Abigail hummed in response. "Are there fish?"

"Just little ones." Billy held up his fingers to demonstrate. "Why? Fancy a swim?"

Abigail blushed under his cheeky smirk. "No!" She answered quickly. Maybe. Yes. Definitely. It was hot and the water looked unbearably refreshing.

The amusement left Billy's eyes. "What are you doing out here alone?"

"I told you, I wanted to go for a walk." It didn't sound convincing to her ears. It didn't sound convincing to him, either. Again, he arched a bemused brow at her and waited. "He," she didn't elaborate, "usually spends his Sundays pursuing more individual study with his congregants."

"Hm," Billy pursed his lips. He picked up a pebble and tossed it into the water.

"I don't need anyone's permission to do as I please." Abigail flicked a stone of her own at the pond.

"I didn't say anything."

"And there's nothing wrong with having separate interests."

"I didn't say anything," Billy said through a laugh.

Abigail flicked another pebble, watching the ripples grow and travel to the shore. "Every Sunday?"

"Every Sunday." Billy was watching her with those crystalline blue eyes, made impossibly bluer by the unrelenting sun and green forest at his back.

There was no reason they couldn't be friends. Albert spent almost all of his free time with Ned. She had as much right as he did to have a close friendship out here. A few hours on Sundays spent with someone who knew her so well couldn't be wrong, especially when she so very badly needed someone who would understand why she did what she did with the trapper, or why thoughts of her father and Miranda Hamilton woke her up at night. Billy would never shun her for these things.

This was fine. Good, even.

With the sun high in the sky, they continued their quiet discussion of nothing at all important, while the leather jewelry burned a silent hole in Abigail's pocket.

* * *

The following Sunday came and went with another pleasant afternoon spent lounging by their little pond in the sun. She worked up the courage to ask about his tattoos. The first he described was a surprise: she hadn't known about the hanged man inked into his shoulder. She hadn't seen it when he'd been relieved of his shirt before his lashing.

"I saw Charles Vane hang."

Abigail knew the name, and she knew it as a pirate almost as revered as the dreaded Captain Flint until his execution.

"He didn't want us to stop it. He knew he could serve the cause more at a martyr than a leader. I wanted to remind myself what one man was willing to sacrifice for others."

Billy was terribly quiet after that, pensive and dark, until he turned his forearm and the corners of his mouth turned up.

A fair wind, Here's Luck, and Billy Bones His Fancy were marked in different hands on the taut muscle between his wrist and elbow.

"To be completely honest, I remember this one," he tapped A fair wind, "but not the others."

"What?" Abigail's fingers ghosted over the words, marveling at the very idea that a man might have no memory of such a painful process. "So you don't know why this one isn't finished?" She let her fingers trace the letters of "fancy." He shrugged and gave a noncommittal grunt. He watched her fingers on his skin. "What is Billy Bones's fancy?" She grinned up at him.

She didn't miss the way his eyes flickered from her hands to her lips. He cleared his throat and gently pulled his arm back, folding his limbs over his bent knees. "I reckon I wasn't sure at the time."

At the time echoed around her mind as she meandered back to Camp Jackson. The sun had set, but she still lingered, savoring the quiet and reluctant to face anyone while she still poured over exactly what he meant by "at the time." They were three simple words that held no real meaning, yet she couldn't shake the thought that they did. There was something in his face, in the way he lingered near her before remembering himself. Or maybe it was all her, in the way she wanted him near, the way she wanted to spend time with him, even missed him throughout the week.

Abigail was not so lost in her own thoughts that she missed the rustling discordant with the natural sounds of the woods. A rabbit or a bird, perhaps? A grunt, then another, told her it was not a small animal. She crept forward, toward the sound, until it became two voices, one grunting between heavy breaths and the other struggling to keep the sound down, but peaking with discomfort.

She was close to the camp, but far enough that the light and sound was still distant. She followed the voices, squinting into the darkness, not sure what it was she was even looking for, until she found it.

At first it was just a hand, glowing pale and feminine against the bark of a tree, and then it was a mop of curly dark hair. Behind her was a sweaty white shirt, the kind the Marines wore under their red coats. Abigail froze in place, suddenly aware of what she was seeing. What would happen if they heard her? Saw her?

The woman gave another grunt of pain and pressed her face against the side of the tree. She was wincing and clenching her jaw. Even in the darkness, Abigail could see her hands digging into the bark. Abigail gasped then clapped her hands over her mouth. It was Lizzie.

Her gasp caught Lizzie's attention, though not the faceless man at her back. At first they just stared at each other in wide-eyed shock, neither sure what to do. Abigail took a small step but Lizzie's face lit up with rage. Lizzie's lips formed "GO" as large as she could, or maybe it was "NO," but Abigail got the message clear enough.

She scurried away as silently as she could, back to the light and noise of the camp, thoughts of Billy completely wiped away by the weight of what she'd just seen. Abigail paused at the edge of the camp and looked back the way she'd come. Lizzie had been in pain, hadn't she? She took at step back, but second-guessed herself. Lizzie had also emphatically told her to go away. If there was anyone to speak up when she needed it, it would be Lizzie.

Wouldn't it?


	7. Chapter 7

Abigail marched to the riverside with her laundry basket pressed into her hip. In four days since she saw Lizzie and the Marine in the woods, not only had Lizzie taken to ignoring her again, but so had all the other girls. If she owed Lizzie an apology, she would apologize, but for the life of her she couldn't figure out what she was supposed to have done. Should she have alerted the other Marines? Was Lizzie simply mistrustful that they would have done the right thing? She clearly had plenty of reason to not trust them.

When she came through the clearing, the chatter from the women withered into silence. She steeled her resolve and tromped into the icy water on a direct path to her usual spot next to Lizzie. The women's eyes followed her with low whispers. Only Lizzie stoutly ignored her, continuing her washing without pause.

Abigail dropped her basket unceremoniously on a large flat boulder. Lizzie winced, her shoulders jerking, but continued rinsing the garment in her hands.

"She don't know," Hannah announced without looking up from her work.

Lizzie stilled, then shook her head. "Shut it."

Abigail sifted through her basket, making more work than simply selecting the first piece of fabric her hands found.

"She. Don't. Know." Hannah repeated.

Lizzie practically growled. She slammed the clothing in her hands into the water with a large splash. She shot a fiery glare at Abigail and then back to Hannah. "Bullshit."

"She doesn't-"

"She was held hostage on two pirate ships!" Lizzie's voice went shrill and she tossed an arm back in Abigail's direction, spraying more water at her. "How could she not fucking know?"

Abigail stopped pretending to work on her laundry and stood up straight. "Lizzie, despite what you have apparently heard-"

Lizzie cut Abigail off with an exasperated groan. "Yes, of course, what was I thinking?" Lizzie popped up from her crouch and pawed at the nonexistent pearls at her neck, batting her eyes up at the sky, her voice unnaturally high. "Whole crews of thieves, murders, and rapists would never lay their filthy fingers on such a delicate lady! It would never occur to me, a Godly lady of fine society, what exactly they shipped all these old whores out to a labor camp for!"

Abigail gasped and her hand clapped over her mouth. Her eyes flew around to the other women, and they alternated between staring at their work and staring at her, blank and unyielding. There were no denials among them. Hannah nodded, her face more drawn and tired than Abigail had ever seen her.

For the first time, Abigail took stock of how many of them were pregnant. At least seven of the girls had bellies, or some hint of a swelling under their bodices. She thought about the slave women, who didn't have the luxury of sharing laundry duties with the convicts, so she only interacted with them on Sundays. How many of them had grown swollen with child since she came here? Certainly some of the slaves were married to each other, but not all of them. If the convict women had husbands at all, they weren't at Camp Jackson.

Abigail's knees buckles and she sank into the water in a puddle. It was shallow enough that the water still only came up to her waist, but she barely noticed that she was now partially submerged. Nausea swirled in her stomach. She could taste the bile in her throat.

"See?" Hannah's voice rose. "I told you she didn't know."

This only seemed to infuriate Lizzie further. "Well, of course she didn't! Why would anyone expect her to know anything? It's not like she's right here in the camp every night when the Marines round us up for their turns." With dangerously narrowed eyes, she zeroed in on Abigail, getting right in her face. "You think I don't know you?" Her voice hissed. "I've known women like you my whole life. You turn your noses up at us when you see us on the street. You pretend like you don't know where your husbands run off to after dinner and then act all scandalized when you find out. Oh yes, it's my fault your husband can't keep his pecker to himself. It's always our fault. You slander us and have us sent off to jail for stealing from you because you're mad at them. Women like you have never given two shits about women like me. You can bat your big brown eyes at Hannah, at Jacobs and Swann. At Will. But not me. I know you're not that stupid."

"You're right," Abigail's voice broke. Her eyes had glassed over with tears, no matter how it shamed her. Lizzie drew back, confusion taking the wind right out of her fury. "I should have seen, but I guess I didn't want to."

Lizzie didn't know what to do with that response. She took a step back, rocking uncertainly. She lost her footing under the slow moving water and tumbled to her rear in a splash. The women, who made no attempt to pretend they weren't watching everything, sucked in a collective gasp. No one moved or spoke, and only the sound of trickling water and bird calls filled the forest. And then, Lizzie's shoulders started to shake. With her head down and her hair cascading over her face, at first Abigail wasn't sure if Lizzie was crying.

Lizzie lifted her chin and pushed her loose hair back. She was laughing. Her cheeks were bright and her giggles infectious. Soon, everyone was laughing with her, even Abigail gave in. They were in tears by the time their laughter faded.

Abigail sniffed and stood, her dress and petticoats now at least ten pounds heavier. She held out a hand to Lizzie, who accepted the help up.

"There's nothing to do about it," Lizzie said, but this time her eyes were softened. She gathered her forgotten garment and returned to her stone seat out of the water. Abigail was rooted in place, the light moment gone. Lizzie's shoulders slumped. "You can't help us."

"That can't be true," Abigail replied, joining Lizzie on her seat.

Lizzie wrung the cloth out, then beat it against another rock until she was satisfied. Her lips held a sad smile. "Every time I think you're lucky I remember: you're stuck out here, just like us."

They went on about their work, sharing low laughter and common ground Abigail hadn't felt since her school days.

* * *

Billy splashed water from the basin over his face and patted it dry with an old towel. He wasn't sure why he bothered. By the time he made it out to the pond - their pond - sweat would already be accumulating on his hairline. By the time she wandered out there, he will have been baking in the unseasonably warm sun for at least a few hours. But he did it anyway. Thankfully, being Sunday and before sunrise, most of the other men in his barracks were asleep, and not awake to tease him about his diligent commitment to cleaning his teeth on his day off. They could mock him all they wanted: he still had a mouth full of teeth. It was one of the few habits he'd carried with him from his childhood, and he'd be damned if he stopped now. None of that meant he didn't grow weary of rolling his eyes at the same dimwitted comments every day.

He swiped a few extra snacks from the mess, just bread and cheese. Despite the early snow storms, winter had come and gone in a sprint, leaving a wet spring and early summer in its wake. The Marines had been able to return to hunting and fishing early, and the camp was back to full rations in a matter of weeks. They even planted early to get the fresh crops cycled. The food was no longer guarded like treasure and a few missing bits wouldn't be noted. Besides, he wouldn't be there for his breakfast or supper rations. It seemed fair enough to him.

The sergeant of the guard gave him a two finger salute against his tricorner, which Billy returned in kind. Most of the Marines knew Billy wouldn't be present for morning accountability. As long as he saw the sergeant on duty before disappearing and was present as usual on Monday morning, they didn't care where he wandered off to.

On his way out of the camp, he saw Albert Locke sitting outside the newly-completed chapel, deep in conversation with Kanuna. It struck him as so odd he stopped walking to better observe the scene. Abigail didn't share much about her marriage, but she had confessed frustration over Locke's reticence to include any of the native prisoners in his ministry.

He saw Locke every Sunday working on his sermon before dawn, usually alone. Today though, Kanuna was resting with his back against the wall of the chapel, puffing on a tobacco pipe. For once, Locke had set aside his Bible and notebook, and they were quietly exchanging words. Every few sentences, Locke would take on a pensive frown and nod, before starting again. Billy continued on his path, eager to beat the sunrise, debating whether or not to ask Abigail about it later.

Abigail seldom spoke about her marriage. Whenever it came up she made a vague comment and then changed the subject. He had so many questions, but none of them could be considered polite conversation. What had happened between her and that well-dressed man he'd seen her with in Charles Town? Had Billy ruined her chances when he delivered her journal to the territorial magistrate's office?

He couldn't face her when she talked about the trial that followed their assault on the city. In an effort to place the blame squarely on one man's shoulders after the sacking, they had turned the Ashe trial into a bit of colonial theater. Lord Ashe was the perfect villain: one of their own, given so much power, facilitating piracy throughout the new world until the pirates turned on him. It was his fault their city burned. It was his fault the territory lost so much money in trade. He brought this scourge down upon them. He was so evil his own daughter doubted him, accusing him of manufacturing her own capture for reasons transcending all manner of public speculation. Perhaps he stopped paying his pirates and they turned on him. Perhaps he suspected her own sympathies before shipping her back from England and wanted her removed from his life. Perhaps he used her kidnapping to cover up the exchange of English property from the legitimate merchants in his employ to pirates.

"It was so juicy," Abigail had said, "they printed these little stories about me with pictures and everything. I was this doe-eyed lamb in ruffles led astray by her debauched family. My father's belly hung over his trousers and he was blowing cigar smoke in my face while a menagerie of tawdry ladies poured wine on each other on the chaise. And oh, the pirates, you should have seen these illustrations. They were these drooling creatures, half dog-"

"That's how I remember them," Billy interjected with a wry smirk.

She shoved his shoulder and continued. "Anyway, I was this precious little princess on a pincushion taken in by these animals and by the end of it, I'm in this horrible red dress, like a bawd, leading this pack of pirates with an opium pipe in one hand and a pistol in the other. Ridiculous."

It was ridiculous enough to be funny, but ultimately it was tragic. He did that to her.

Billy wasn't so noble as to blame himself for all of it. Abigail's journal had been used against Ashe, to be sure, but it was mostly a tool to persuade public opinion, which ultimately achieved Flint's goal: to punish Peter Ashe. Billy did, however, blame himself for what Abigail endured in the aftermath. She was shuffled from one home to the next, but her reputation as a traitor and sympathizer followed her. No gentleman of quality character would have a young woman who had not only been soiled by pirates - the veracity of that assumption be damned - but then had the audacity to write such complimentary things about them.

Billy had to duck low and squeeze to get through the crevice that Abigail could simply walk through. He chuckled to himself, thinking about all the ways Abigail had teased him about this. That first Sunday, when they decided to return to camp, she'd paused on the boulders and looked back, only to burst into laughter at the sight of Billy maneuvering himself through the narrow path. She made a habit of waiting for him to emerge, biting her lip to hold her laughter back, and losing that battle every time.

When he got to the other side, he tossed his sack of provisions up on the shore, then collapsed onto his back on the cool, moist earth. The sun was already rising, but the pond's position behind the small mountain of boulders obscured sunrise. He would have a nice view of the sunset behind the trees and hills to the west, made nicer by finally having some company.

He fished out a roll of bread and took a generous bite. While he chewed, he tried to ignore the buzzing in his chest. He'd looked forward to his Sundays out here, away from the others, ever since finding the place, but now it was different. The week dragged on, a blur of hard labor and following orders, until Saturday night, when he could go to sleep knowing something good waited for him in the morning. He didn't deserve it, but he was still a pirate. He would enjoy this for as long as he got to have it.

He knew he needed to keep his distance. He tried before the lashing, and he did a good job after. Though, he knew it was mostly because she kept her distance. He hated seeing her blaming herself for that, but it was better for her to treat him as a stranger. He could easily lose count of every single way their friendship was a problem, but he kept showing up on Sunday, waiting for her. He gave up acting prickly and angry with her the moment he'd realized she left the camp in that storm. He couldn't pretend he didn't like seeing her, talking to her, whiling away his free time with her. He couldn't pretend that her friendship and trust weren't a light, gradually pulling him out of the hole he'd dug for himself back in Nassau.

After a while, the warming sun seeped into his skin. Before surrendering to sleep, he pushed his boots off and rolled up his pant legs to his knees, to let the cool water lap against his feet. When he dreamed, he was on a beach in the Caribbean, and the water was warm.

He wasn't sure what it was, but something pulled him from his nap. He blinked his eyes against the high sun and pushed up on his elbows. He opened his mouth when he saw Abigail standing in the water with her back to him, then promptly shut it again. She was holding her skirts up, high enough that he could see she wasn't wearing stockings, and tracing her foot in sweeping arcs over the place where the bottom of the pond dropped off to its full depth.

He should say something, or cough, do something to make his alertness known, but instead he just watched her. The skin exposed between the bottom of her skirts and the water was so pale. Light reflected of the water against her bare calves, dancing on her skin. She'd let her hair down, something she never did, not since they'd first met.

"Married women don't run around with their hair down," she replied when he asked her about it. "Honestly, I'm lucky Albert doesn't expect me to cover my hair like some ministers do with their wives."

Now it hung down, nearly to her waist, in dark waves. He remembered what that hair felt like tangled in his hands. Did it smell the same? Probably not, but he wanted to find out. Her shoulders jumped and her hands jerked her skirts a little higher, then she giggled. She bent to investigate something in the water, made an excited cooing sound and stepped after whatever had caught her interest, probably a fish. She turned first one way, then the other, then spun after it. She was grinning and laughing when she saw that he was sitting up. She colored a little and let out an embarrassed laugh.

"I'm so sorry," she said, picking her way back to the shore. "I meant to let you sleep then started splashing around like a child."

Billy sat up fully, shaking the dirt off his arms. "It's fine." His voice cracked. "I think I woke up on my own."

"All the times I've come up here," she sat next to him and adjusted her skirts to hide her feet, "I've never actually been in the water. I saw a fish! It brushed my foot."

"I told you they were in there."

"Of course there are fish in there, but seeing them is different."

Indeed it was. He dug into the provisions and produced a hunk of cheese, offering it to her. She cooed at this too and took a generous bite, munching happily on her snack. They sat in silence for a long time, enjoying the sunshine and privacy, the most precious item in short supply at the camp. The way they all lived, literally stacked on each other in the convict barracks, in cloth buildings, sharing all their meals, and never leaving, took its toll.

After a long time, Abigail crossed her legs and smoothed her hands over her skirts, spreading them out in an arc in front of herself. She peaked up at him from under her eyelashes. "I have something for you. I've actually had it for a while now. It's stupid, I'm sure."

"What is it?" He tipped his chin down at her, where her hands were turning something over she'd fished out of her pocket. Her head only came up to his shoulder, even when he sat next to her with his back slumped. It never failed to amuse him.

She extended her hand and held out a leather strap, painfully similar to one he used to wear. He took it gingerly and inspected it. It was certainly finer than anything he'd ever acquired and worn. The designs cut into it were of the native fashion, and a golden stone, bright like a cat's eye, glittered from a braid. He remembered a necklace he used to wear, usually lost among the others, collected from a prize. He'd left all those pieces on Skeleton Island years ago. They were worthless trinkets, exchanged and shared among his brothers. On Skeleton Island, he accepted that he had no brothers anymore.

Now he held this item, so familiar and so new. Something dark must have crossed his face, because Abigail's brow knitted with worry and she reached to take it back. "I'm sorry, it was presumptive of me to make something like this for you."

"No!" he said too quickly, snatching it out of her reach. "You made this?" He inspected it closer, with fresh appreciation for the carving and braiding, the sturdiness of the strap. Just looking at it, he could tell it would fit his wrist perfectly.

"Yes," she replied in a soft voice. She worrying her hands in her lap. "It was nothing. Just a bit of practice."

He buckled it and held his arm out. It was comfortable, it felt right to wear it. "I like it. Thank you."

When she preened, her cheeks took on an extremely attractive flush. It was yet another thing he never missed and went out of his way to elicit.

He would not be so quick to toss this item away when it came time for this friendship to end. Part of him feared it might be the only thing he hung onto for the rest of his life.

* * *

It finally happened: the property owners returned from their comfortable winter furlough in the city. Abigail had been sitting on a stump, quietly scratching away at her journal and taking peaks at the men erecting the walls of her house, when shouts rose up for men to come to the eastern entrance to the camp.

The Rowling and Kent families came with two wives, two housekeepers, six children between them, furniture, clothes, gilded mirrors and art work nearly the size of a wagon, three ancient longcase clocks and a pianoforte. There was a time when Abigail might have traveled like that, and she shared a secret smile with herself to know that was no longer the case.

With them came an invitation to supper, delivered by Ned, in three days' time when they would be fully settled into their country estates. Each family faced the laughable challenge of cramming their sprawling households into a pair of four-bedroom cabins. Out here, those homes were opulent, but in any stable American city they were modest, at best.

Abigail stood outside their tent, smoothing the pleats of her good dress. She had gotten married in this fine blue muslin she'd also worn the day she met Albert. It was her only remaining fine dress in her possession, and a dinner with fine people called for a fine dress. She had put on her string of pearls, the only remaining bit of real jewelry she had left.

The sun set and she was left in the flickering torchlight, nervously pulling at her skirt and bodice. It felt unnatural after so many months in plain, heavy dresses. It was tight and would wrinkle with every move. She would have to take extra caution to keep her skirts from gathering mud on their walk to the Kent home. She cast a glance over her shoulder, humming under her breath. Albert had been late, spending the long dusk hours with the Marines who couldn't make it to his Sunday service. He was as nervous about the evening as she was.

Her spine tickled with the awareness that she was being watched. She searched the flame-lit pathways between the white canvas tents, and did not have to look long. Billy was frozen at the end of the path between the mess and the convicts' barracks, at the intersection where they could see each other. The convicts he'd been walking with trailed around and ahead of him, leaving him at the juncture, completely still except for the steady rise and fall of his breath. Something in his gaze sent her stomach flipping. Her breath caught in her chest and gooseflesh prickled down her neck and arms. Even in the dim, shadowed light, she could see his lips had parted.

She felt warm all over, despite the evening chill. Her cheeks were hot, but she couldn't identify why she should feel shy. The torchlight glinted off his bare arms in a way that made him appear larger, all hard lines from his jaw to his boots, and all focused entirely on her.

The tent flap behind her burst open, followed by Albert, still straightening his collar. "You look lovely!" He was bright and cheery, and held his arm out for her to take. "Ready?"

Abigail shot a look back to where Billy had just been standing, but he was already gone. "Yes," she replied in a rush of breath. "Yes, let's go."

They arrived at the Kent home to a flurry of activity so achingly familiar, Abigail had to swallow a choking lump in her throat before tears could fall. The Baron Reuben Kent and his lady wife Clarissa were close in age to Albert and Abigail, if a few years older each, and the proud parents of four children, ranging from 2 to 10. Mr Silas Rowling and Gertie were older, Silas over 40. Their two older children were watching the Kent's brood across the field in their sprawling house. Mr. Rowling was a self-made man who earned a fortune when he turned a cheap plot of swampland outside Charles Town into great stretches of rice fields that naturally flooded with the tides. He had no qualms espousing the benefits of slave labor while blacks quietly served their plates, refilled their glasses, kept the dishes coming. Abigail recognized them from ministry and her reading and writing lessons. Auba and Mimba ghosted around the dining room, undoubtedly on the bidding of the Kent's housekeeper.

After months of rations and camp food, roast duck, baked fish, and steamed vegetables tasted like Heaven. Abigail learned a great deal of things over their meal. Clarissa planned to send her two oldest to boarding school in the fall, and abhorred the idea of hiring a governess to come live with them. "It's crowded enough," she drug out the words and chased them with a delicate sip from her wine glass. Gertie would also be sending her children to complete their educations in the fall, though unlike Clarissa, she seemed to genuinely dread when she would no longer be seeing her children every day. It had been Mr. Rowling's insistence to bring not one but two longcase clocks and, if she wasn't mistaken, Clarissa and her husband held a private disdain for the other couple. They would tolerate the Rowling's as long as no one better came to Jackson.

They all asked the standard questions demanded of civility, but Abigail did not miss their hummed responses and secret shared looks. Albert was blissfully unaware, happy to let these people chat about and amongst themselves. He was seated next to Ned, who was also content to let the newcomers dominate conversation. Abigail caught him murmuring comments to Albert from time to time, earning a poorly-hidden laugh. This left Abigail between Gertie and Captain Jacobs, who was his usual terse self. He made her skin crawl.

Watching Ned and Albert enjoying themselves in spite of the company inspired a pang in Abigail's chest. Albert was so clearly at ease, she felt simultaneously jealous and relieved. At least one of them was. Gertie largely ignored her, and Abigail would have taken a bear as her dining companion over Jacobs. Her mind traveled willfully to Billy. It would be so nice, maybe even fun, to exchange arch looks and whispered jokes while these high society types entertained themselves. She didn't shiver with revulsion every time her arm brushed against Billy's or their feet bumped.

"Truly, how have you survived in this wilderness?" Gertie asked.

Abigail looked up from her plate to the table, eyes wide. Everyone was looking at her. How long had they been talking about this? She brought her napkin up to pat her lips and gather some semblance of a response.

"Mrs. Locke has had many to help her, even when she traipses off into the woods." Jacobs finished his statement by taking a bite of duck. The table lapsed into silence and once again, all eyes were on Abigail, this time the air was tense.

She folded her napkin carefully back into her lap. Albert's face blanched and she could see him searching for a response, but he was not as equipped to deal with such a confrontation as she was. "Indeed," she cleared her throat, "so many residents of Camp Jackson have been courteous and helpful. In spite of the weather, I find myself very much at home here."

"Most courteous." Jacobs snorted into his wine glass.

"I believe what our good Captain here means," Ned interjected himself, "is that our convicts are by and large not violent offenders. The end goal, of course, is to integrate everyone into a working community. Almost everyone here brings valuable skills necessary to any civilized territory. Mr. and Mrs. Locke have been generous enough to bring religious ministry here, despite it not being the easiest place to live."

"And how long have you been married?" Clarissa said. "I just love seeing a young couple starting out in the world together."

Abigail could begrudge these people many things, but she did miss the nobility's capacity for keeping a conversation steered out of potentially embarrassing topics.

"Almost a year now," Albert answered. This satisfied the group enough to move on.

The meal continued without interruption until the men departed for the drawing room for cigars and the women remained for coffee. For several long moments, the only sounds were the delicate tinkling of tea spoons against china cups and the rustling of the slaves gathering the dishes and disappearing as quickly as possible.

Clarissa and Gertie were having some unspoken conversation until Clarissa exhaled a long-suffering sigh. "Just ask her, already."

"I could never!" Gertie's hand fluttered to the necklaces looped around her neck.

"Ask me what?" Abigail set her spoon down on the saucer.

"Well," Gertie set her coffee cup back down without a moment's hesitation, "is it true? The stories about you and the pirates?"

Abigail expected this. It had been so many pleasant months without this conversation, but this little taste of society was inevitable. She had a tried and true script for this, but she was woefully out of practice. "I'm sorry, it depends on which stories you've heard. I'm afraid to admit that most of it is probably untrue."

Gertie wrinkled her upturned nose and shifted giddily in her seat. "Oh come on, all that time with pirates, Captain Flint of all, and you really have no stories? What were they like? Oh, when I made the crossing with my family as a girl, I fell desperately in love with a cabin boy. God, I thought he was the most beautiful boy I'd ever seen, and he kissed like the Devil," she concluded with a conspiratorial wink.

Abigail hid her blush behind a sip of coffee. Clarissa rolled her eyes, but didn't comment. Despite being at least ten years Gertie's junior, Clarissa came from an old and titled family, and clearly did not care for Gertie's scandalous storytelling.

Oh, well, after I was locked in a cell and force-fed opium for God-knows how long by men who were threatening to rape me if my father didn't pay, I was rescued by the most feared pirate in the Atlantic and entertained a dalliance with a handsome gentleman pirate who, wouldn't you know it, is here. And none of that is the best part: the real fun came at my father's trial and the sack of Charles Town. Cheers, ladies.

"Sadly, my story was not that exciting." Abigail idly stirred her coffee. "I know it's hard to believe, but the men of the Siren and Captain Flint's crew were all respectful gentlemen to me. And on the Nemo, Captain Lowe was so concerned about damaging his prize, he did not allow his men to harm me."

"Don't be coy," Gertie said, smirking like she was onto something. "We're all friends here. Someone must have inspired you to write such flattering things about those pirates."

The memory of Billy's lips against hers, his hands moving from her hips to her waist, tracing from her jaw into her hair and down her neck, kissing and smiling and laughing into each other, rushed unbidden to Abigail's mind. She could still feel him after all this time, perhaps because he was back in her life, no longer relegated to a fading memory. Gertie's story was almost laughably childish. Billy had been no cabin boy, and she'd never describe him kissing like the Devil. No, he kissed like he worshiped her. He'd kissed her like she was his life's breath, and if they parted for even a moment he might suffocate. He was not the Devil but a light; warm, strong, and safe. She hadn't been tricked or coerced like a devil might. She needed him as badly as he needed her. She had burned for him, wanting to take so much he had been the one to back off. She'd never felt anything like the soaring dizziness of all that sensation at once, and with a man so unapologetically male, hard where she was soft, calloused where she was smooth, dwarfing her but never abusing their strength imbalance.

"Look at her, she's blushing!" Gertie cheered. "It must be a good story."

Clarissa spared Abigail a sympathetic nod. "Gertie, let her go. She's a minister's wife and, despite her father's downfall, still a daughter of a fine family. Surely she doesn't want to gush over some old mistake while her husband is in the other room."

Abigail swallowed the velvet daggers with as much grace as she could.

Gertie rolled her eyes, but submitted. "How about something a little less fun then. No children? Mr. Locke said you've been together nearly a year now."

Clarissa set her cup back on its saucer with a clatter. "Honestly, Gertie, that's not better."

Abigail smiled and nodded along with the conversation, deftly avoiding their questions and never rising to any veiled judgment. When Albert reappeared, announcing that they would retire, Abigail nearly leapt out of her seat to dash out the door.

"I'm sorry they made you feel uncomfortable," Albert whispered as he helped her with the laces on her dress. She hadn't even told him about the coffee conversation.

"We all just have to get used to each other." Abigail shrugged out of her dress and folded it on the bed. Albert helped her with her stays next, and then handed her the dressing gown. This had been a horribly awkward affair for the first two weeks, until they adjusted to each other. It remained one of the few truly intimate and private things they shared, unique to man and wife.

Albert sat on the bed and took her hands in his while she remained standing. "Are you sure you don't want to have children?"

Abigail stiffened. Had the men been as garrulous as their wives? "Why do you ask?"

He released her hand to push his glasses up his nose. "Our marriage is not…conventional. Don't you think it might be easier on both of us if it was?"

"What a wonderful reason to start a family." She bit the words out so hard she immediately regretted speaking them. "I'm sorry, I don't understand what's inspired this. I know it isn't traditional, but we seem to both prefer this."

"What kind of man prefers to sleep next to his wife without ever touching her?" His voice rose with anxiety. "This is not normal, Abigail."

Abigail recoiled. "And who says what's normal? Them? Those people would feed me to the wolves as soon as share supper with me. You were the one who said it was fine, that it's God's will."

"I believe we may have been lying to ourselves on that account," Albert said, hanging his head. "I think we may be setting a poor example. We should be at least trying for a family, and we need to merge our interests. We should not be spending so much time apart."

"You mean I should be following you around like a lost duck. We both know you won't be joining me with Kanuna in the afternoons. Do you plan on taking up leathercraft or wrangling the smaller children during my writing lessons?"

Albert shook his head, but Abigail was already tugging a skirt over her shift and searching for a decent jacket. "Now, that's not true. Not exactly. Kanuna and I have been meeting on Sunday mornings. Perhaps instead of working with him, it would be more appropriate for you to work with us, preparing sermons and study materials for the women and children."

Abigail buttoned the fitted wool jacket over her shift. She stopped at the tent door. "I'm glad that you've extended courtesy to him, truly I am. But I will not be your shadow here."

"Where are you going?" He sat up straighter, concerned that she would be leaving the safety of their tent so late at night.

"I need air. I won't go far." She paused once more before leaving. "There is so much evil in this world, Albert. I know what we have is not traditional, but we care about each other, don't we? It seems to be a shame to shun a real friendship because others might not understand it."

She left before he could reply, and walked the paths between the tents with her arms crossed and her eyes on the mud. She walked until she stood at the western edge of Camp Jackson, faced with the dense woods and sharp mountains rising out of the ground. She lifted her eyes to the stars and let the sea of sparkling jewels wash over her in peace.

The same tickling sensation she'd felt just a few hours earlier rose the hairs on the back of her arms and neck. She turned first one way, then another until she saw Billy sitting on an overturned bucket outside his barracks. He was watching her with a quizzical expression, head tilted in question.

She almost opened her mouth to greet him and call him over. She clamped shut when she realized with a start that she knew exactly what she wanted. She wanted to feel him, and for him to feel her. She wanted his reassuring strength and to be held in his arms, heedless of silly people whose opinions don't matter. She wanted to feel wanted, and bask in the knowledge that he was as hungry for her as she was him. She wanted someone who never turned from her, who didn't look at her in underclothes and hide a grimace. She wanted his easy friendship all day, every day, confident that he would never ask her to sacrifice her own interests for his own. She went back every Sunday looking for a small taste of that comfort she couldn't have.

Aching desire and shame rushed in like the ocean on a sinking ship. Tears welled in her eyes, and even at their distance, she knew Billy saw. He stood and looked around nervously, acutely aware of being seen with her alone at this hour. She was frozen in place, torn between a desire to explore her newfound understanding of precisely what she wanted, and abject misery over it. Albert was to be her closest friend and confidante, her comfort in a bitter, embattled world. Albert saved her from poverty and this future as a convict. For all his faults, Albert reached out over and over in an effort to bridge the growing divide between them. Albert was her husband, in the eyes of God and the law if not in their actions.

"Mrs. Locke?" A Marine appeared behind her, startling her into action. "Are you alright, Ma'am?"

"It's fine, I'm fine," Abigail replied, brushing past the confused Marine before he could get a good look at her face. She didn't look back to see Billy, certain that if they locked eyes again, she would cross a line from which there was no return.

She returned to an empty tent, and for the first time in their marriage, she went to bed alone.

He was still gone when she awoke the next morning, his side of the bed undisturbed.


	8. Chapter 8

Billy studied Abigail's profile from his periphery. She had been strange this Sunday, hardly able to look at him. When he started to ask about seeing her at the edge of Jackson a few nights earlier, she quickly changed the subject to the weather. She was shifty and odd, fidgeting with her dress and that blasted muslin kerchief wrapped around her neck and across her back where she'd tied it in a pretty bow. He felt cloistered just looking at it.

He'd been chewing over the night he saw her in that pretty blue dress. He had seen her a grand total of two times in clothing befitting a woman of her class, and each time it had taken his breath away in a great blow. He was starstruck and viscerally reminded that he could never actually have her. It was painful and beautiful all at once. Then he saw her again, alone and searching the stars, in a drab skirt and heavy coat, now wild and beautiful, and all the pain he felt was on her face instead of his.

For a moment those few nights ago, he'd thought she might call out to him, or come to him in a rush. She would tumble into his arms and he'd kiss her lips, her cheeks, her eyelids, her hair, and promise her all manner of things he could never provide just to see her happy again.

"You don't come here just for the quiet and a still pond," she said. A green and blue dragonfly buzzed into view, performing a little dance just for them, bobbing down and shooting up from the water.

"Do you?" He pulled his knees up and wound his arms around them. The soft, moist earth sank around his feet. He plucked a piece of long grass and turned it about on his fingers.

"You were coming here long before I was," she countered. It was bold, but an honest admission to acknowledge her own part in their weekly escape. "Why?" She turned her gaze him and he realized they were the same rich, earthy brown of the soil here.

He mulled over the question, unsure how to answer. The honest answer sounded crazy to his own ears, but she was smart enough to discern that peace, quiet, and cold water did not warrant the entirety of his weekly liberty from dawn until dusk. "At sea, sometimes this thing happens when the sun sets. A lot of people don't even believe in it until they see it. There's this flash of green light right before the sun dips completely below the horizon."

"A green light?"

Billy nodded. "I know it sounds strange, but it's real. I've seen it a few times. It's beautiful, like a comet or something, and then it's gone."

Abigail squinted at the western horizon, obscured by trees and mountain lines. "Do you think you'll see it here?"

"No," he shook his head quickly, then shrugged. "I know I won't. I think it only happens when you have a clear, flat horizon line on the water, like we do when we're sailing. I guess I don't know. It'd be nice to see it."

"I imagine it's very pretty."

"Not just that," Billy said. "The Scots say that a man who sees it will be granted clarity of purpose. I always felt clear out there. I knew where I belonged, what I wanted, how to get it."

"Until you didn't?" Abigail frowned and tilted her head.

Billy chuckled, chagrined. "Until I didn't know what the fuck I was doing anymore. I saw one, right before we picked you up, actually. I haven't seen one since. The other legend sailors tell is that the light is a man's soul escaping Hell."

"I guess that would be a moment of clarity, too." Abigail smirked at him.

He laughed again. "That would clear a few things up, wouldn't it?"

They fell into silence again, until Abigail exhaled a long sigh. The humor left her countenance and once more, she couldn't look at him. "I can't come back anymore," she whispered.

"I know." Billy nodded. She jerked and her eyes widened at that. "You have to do what you have to do." He reached out and squeezed her hand. The gold gem on the wrap she gave him glinted in the midday sun between them. "I know this isn't… I knew this was borrowed time. It's alright."

Her eyes glassed over, but she nodded along with him. "I'm sorry. I thought… I don't know what I thought, but I owe it to my husband. I have to try harder. I'm so sorry."

He stood when she stood, but she took a quick, cautious step away before he could do anything stupid, like touch her. If he touched her, it would be over. He would not be able to let go. His hands fisted uselessly at his sides, and he stayed rooted in place as she took another step back, and then turned away. At the crevice she paused and turned back once more. He tilted his chin down once, and she returned the gesture, though her hands shook and she looked to be biting her cheeks, holding back whatever it was she wanted to say. If she felt anything like Billy, she would want to scream and rage about the shit god who dared to bring them back to each other, only as a convict and a married woman.

Billy let her go. The very least he owed her was, this time around, to make it easier for her to get on in her world.

* * *

"You don't have to do this," Marcus said, eyeing the little canvas bag in Billy's hand. It was just big enough for a few stones, and small enough to be easily hidden. Billy answered Marcus's statement by pressing his lips into a thin line and holding the bag out.

Marcus took it and tested the weight in his hand. "This is too much."

"It'll get your people wherever they need to go, as long as they're not stupid about fencing it."

"They know what to do." Marcus let the wry smile break on his lips.

"Good," Billy nodded once. His eyes shifted from the woods back toward the billowing white tents at the camp. Marcus left without another word, quietly circumventing the Marines who would not care for a slave out of his quarters at this hour. Billy had just enough time to move his buried loot before anyone would notice his own absence.

Billy didn't know what Marcus had planned, and that was just as well. Should anything go wrong, the fewer people who knew, the better. Marcus would have made a fine pirate, in another life maybe.

In this life, he was a slave. At least for now.

* * *

The following Monday, Abigail and Albert tried once more to copulate - his word, not hers.

"We must never surrender to the pull of our baser impulses." Albert's words shook. "God blessed our marriage. We have a duty to live as man and wife."

Abigail hadn't considered not wanting to lie together a "baser impulse." If anything, it seemed as if they had escaped the exact sort of debauchery that lead people to treat sex as an act of recreation rather than a sacred covenant. She knew exactly what that impulse felt like, even if she and Billy had never followed through on it.

When she lie in bed next to Albert, listening to him enumerate the importance of Biblical law, the situation between the two of them couldn't be more different. Even the night in the cave, freezing, hungry, exhausted, and scared, had inspired something altogether other. After being fished out of a nearly frozen river, injured and unconscious, Billy had sought her out, warm and strong, pulling her as if he couldn't get close enough. Albert's hands were cool, soft, and trembling when he braced himself over her. His legs tangled in her night dress and he broke out into a cold sweat. Abigail swallowed a wave of nausea and tried to help, but this only flustered him more. After several failed attempts, he rolled off her with a cry of frustration.

He remained soft, and Abigail recalled a proclivity among the pirates to mock each other for limpness. She hadn't understood the jokes, but now understood it had to do with sexual performance. Albert turned away from her and refused to speak. Abigail had very little experience, but just enough to understand desire. This was the reaction of a man who did not desire her, and she determined with certainty that she did not desire him.

For her, it was both a relief and yet another sickening truth. She didn't want him to touch her, and that must be the baser impulse Albert was so afraid of. It was the impulse to not be his wife in every sense of the term, just as he had an impulse to not be her husband.

Abigail resolved to learn to live with all of it. She told herself it could be worse, and imagined how her life might look had she said "yes" to one of the other suitors who'd come calling - drunks, gamblers, leering gazes that told her they would not simply roll off of her in frustration no matter how uncomfortable she was. Albert had offered her a way out of her financial situation and a peaceful coexistence, and dammit, she would be happy with that. He was still kind, and with a certain amount of discussion and cajoling, had a genuine interest in learning as much from her as she from him.

The spring days began to bleed together in a haze of afternoon rain showers and Bible study. Some days, sitting next to Albert, her fingers followed the words on the yellowing Bible pages until they became red and irritated.

She didn't return to Kanuna's work area and instead followed Albert through his daily routine, listless and lost, unsure where she fit in all this.

His study turned from the welcoming message he'd shared with her in the early days of their brief courtship and marriage. He latched onto the idea surrendering to the call of sin defined a person as depraved, rather than his earlier ideas that depravity could only come in the form of not feeling the call to salvation entirely. "A sinner," he licked his lips and took a deep breath, as if the words might inflate limp sails, "who continues to chose sin, is, in fact, choosing to ignore God's call. Sinners cannot enter the kingdom of Heaven because they are, by definition, not the elect."

She decided then and there to never, ever tell him about the trapper she'd at least tried to kill. Or her ever present desire to go to Billy, as a friend, as something more; Albert would see either as yet another act of sin and rebellion from their marriage.

Albert began to leave in the evenings and not return until after Abigail was already asleep, presumably to avoid any other opportunity to attempt intercourse again. This gave Abigail time in the evenings to resume writing in her journal. Sometimes she took her journal out to a bench near the western border of the camp, to watch the stars while she wrote. Marines and convicts would acknowledge her, but she was mostly left to her own devices. It was strangely similar to, yet markedly different from, her time with the Milton's. At least no one here seemed to actively want her to leave.

Two weeks had gone by without a visit to their secret wading pool, and Abigail and Billy were once more successfully avoiding each other. She kept hoping he would wander out of his barracks tent again and find her out on her bench alone, but he never came.

She scribbled away in her journal, the not-quite-dry ink smudging against her palm. Lizzie was proving to be a true friend, if a little acerbic, but Abigail still didn't feel ready to talk to her about the more pressing concerns on her mind. Her weekly excursions with Billy had been more of an outlet than she realized. She found herself overflowing with thoughts, observations, and feelings, and nowhere to put them but the page.

Not even the rows of flickering torches could dim the stars. They twinkled down at her happily; they knew something wonderful that she did not. It was not the sea, but the vast expanse of wilderness did offer the same uninterrupted view of the night sky.

Footsteps on grass called her attention away from the stars. As the Marine got closer, lifting a match to light a pipe, Abigail recognized Captain Jacobs. She closed her journal and stuck the lid back in her inkwell.

"No need to leave on my account." Jacobs puffed on his pipe, stoking the tobacco until it glowed red, then faded into smoke. He hummed and tapped the bowl of the glossy carved pipe. "My apologies about the delays on your house. The good Baron wanted to ensure the fields are ready for sowing before we miss the season. It was nothing personal."

Abigail doubted that. If the light was better, she might have noticed the subtle twitch of his lips. "It's fine. I understand that we aren't a priority here."

Jacobs chuckled with a heavy puff of smoke out his nostrils. "I underestimated you. The first well-intentioned missionaries who accompanied us here," he gestured vaguely back at the camp with his pipe, "the wife wouldn't eat the camp rations, too poor for her. She complained to anyone who would listen, harassed the female convicts, neither of them would even acknowledge the slaves, let alone include them. And then her husband turned up not far from where we're standing now beaten to within an inch of his life. They left after that."

"They sound lovely." Abigail tucked her journal under her arm and her pen and inkwell into one of the deep pockets of her skirts.

"James only has a few things to finish. It should be done within the week." Jacobs occupied Abigail's bench seat and settled into enjoy her second favorite view in Camp Jackson. "I have to get more men from the fort. Lord Kent and Mr. Rowling have expressed displeasure at allowing convicts to hold leadership positions."

Abigail gritted her teeth and paused mid-step. Since arriving here, Captain Jacobs had not once attempted to engage her in conversation, save the occasional snide comment or hard lecture. "James?"

Jacobs' face remained passive but his dark eyes glittered. "The convict? He's been managing the build. I'm sorry, I assumed you'd remember him."

She could have slapped herself. She blinked and cleared her throat, then forced some semblance of a self-deprecating smile. "Oh, right. Mr. James. I'm not sure where my head was."

Jacobs blew another stream of smoke. "I hope it stays firmly in place while I'm gone. Not that I don't trust my executive officer, but everyone knows him to be a gentler hand. It would be a shame if something were to happen to you. Or your husband."

"You have so little faith in your own men?"

"Men are men." Jacobs shrugged and the seams of his crimson coat pulled and relaxed against the motion. It was a wonder how men went about their days in such heavy uniforms, let alone fought in them. "As long as they stay busy and on task, they're easy to control. It's the downtime out here that's dangerous. That's why I don't allow them to fraternize with the convicts."

The memory of what she saw one of his Marines doing to Lizzie sprang to mind. …what exactly they shipped all these old whores out to a labor camp for!

"I'll be gone a week or so. Will you miss me terribly?" he asked with his familiar bite.

Abigail responded by walking back into the camp without a word or backward glance.

* * *

"C'mon!" A younger convict shoved an open glass bottle into Billy's chest. Fortunately, they'd already drunk enough that it didn't splash all over him. He shook his head and grunted, pushing the bottle back toward his already drunk compatriot.

The smell of alcohol no longer offered the familiar comfort it had for years. The scent made him feel dirty, lost, and angry. He was arguably still all of those things, but there was a different flavor to it now. The fumes wafting up from the bottle tasted wrong. He couldn't have taken a swig if he wanted to.

Lieutenant Swann had authorized liberty for all but a handful of the most unfortunate Marines, and a small party. It was not, he insisted, to celebrate Jacobs' departure, but a plan he and the commandant agreed upon weeks ago to celebrate the successful completion of tilling the Kent and Rowling estates. This was, allegedly, pure coincidence. Billy knew this routine well: Swann was their friend, the kind one, the one they could talk to. Any valuable tidbits were inevitably passed right along to Jacobs and the non-commissioned officers to address issues between the Marines, between the convicts, and both. Jacobs needed a man like Swann to quell problems before they started.

So Swann gave the residents of Camp Jackson a cobbled-together band, a few bottles of rum to share, extra rations and a few roasted boars. Panem et circenses. The Marines would be pleased for weeks, the convicts a little less. The slaves were permitted their own small party with their own music, much to the displeasure of their masters. While he and the others were being dismissed as patrollers, Billy also got to hear Mr. Rowling express a few choice words to Swann over what he considered a violation of his private property.

Billy sat far away from the main gathering - a mingling of Marines and convicts, even the property owners and their older children were taking part in the feast and clapping along with the drums and pipes. His discarded plate was at his feet and he crossed his arms, leaned back against the post of a tent, and watched from a safe distance. The only two people he even remotely considered friends were out of reach. Marcus was relegated to the slaves' quarters and their own party. He could join them, if he wanted, but he had the good sense to know where he wasn't welcome. It wasn't his place, and they would be right to not want him there. Besides, it wouldn't do to have anyone suspect they trusted each other.

The other was so far out of his reach, he wouldn't be able to publicly socialize with her even if she hadn't expressed that they shouldn't see each other anymore.

It was for the best. The last people he'd considered friends… well, it was for the best. As much as he would have accepted being Abigail's friend, he wanted more than she could ever appropriately give. They both knew it.

If only he didn't have to keep reminding himself of that.

Mrs. Rowling, a tall, loud woman hiding streaks of gray in her elaborate reddish-brown coif, squealed happily, piercing over even the bagpiper, "Mrs. Locke!"

Billy sat up. Mrs. Rowling was waving giddily and even at this distance, he could see Lady Kent's eye-roll into her cup. Abigail approached on the arm of her husband. The group greeted each other with tight, forced smiles. Abigail's was the most forced. Albert and the other men made off in their own direction. The other two women were oblivious to the way Abigail watched her husband leave, seething and pink around her cheeks that didn't not bear any resemblance to a happy blush. She took the cup Mrs. Rowling offered and drank its entire contents, eliciting a burst of scandalized laughter from the older woman. Lady Kent didn't react until Abigail poured herself another drink, toasted them, turned on her heel and marched away. Lady Kent's lips moved in a way that made Billy wonder if paucity of facial expression was a requirement for nobility. Maybe they traded it for more money.

He could follow. He could find out what had her so spun up. He could-

"Oi! James!" Corporal Howland was calling to him. That was one Marine in particular Billy avoided. He remembered with remarkable clarity the unbidden pleasure Howland had taken in restraining Abigail during his lashing. Howland was a special breed of man who liked seeing people suffer. He'd met many pirates who shared that compulsion, drawn to the profession not for freedom but the freedom to act out their desires. Men like that weren't ever welcome on his crew, but coexisting with them was a fact of life.

"C'mere!" Howland waved him over. He stood among a large semicircle of Marines and convicts. They'd dropped their coats and waistcoats. A few were dirty and a little bloody, laughing and cracking their cups together. Billy obeyed the command - it was a command, no matter how friendly he appeared. "It's convicts against Marines. It's five-to-one for the Marines, I thought I'd help your people even the odds a bit, eh?"

Howland clapped him between the shoulders. Billy winced. The wounds had long since healed, but the anger lingered. "I'm sorry to disappoint, but I'm not a fighter."

"Bullshit," Howland laughed and the others joined. "I've got a whole bottle of rum in it for the man who wins."

"Sorry."

Howland's eyes narrowed. "Not good enough? How 'bout…" he leaned in for a whisper that almost every man present could hear, "I'll make sure it's you who gets a turn at Lizzie tonight. She's all yours."

Billy paused, his eyes wandering of their own accord to where he knew Lizzie would be perched on a table with the other female convicts. She was laughing prettily and, in total defiance of social mores, Abigail was on the bench just below, surrounded by convict women. She wasn't laughing, but some of the tension had left her.

They took his pause as interest and the group rumbled with knowing laughs. "That got his attention!" Howland crowed.

Billy spared one more look at the women, who were slowly becoming aware of the ruckus the Marines and convicts were making. "I'll fight you." He deliberately looked Howland up and down. Howland was thick in the chest, long arms, a big man but soft in a way that revealed too much. "Just you, and no one else touches Lizzie for the week."

The group fell into silence, then grumblings. Howland scoffed. "You're not really in a position to set terms."

Billy pursed his lips and feigned thinking it over. "I guess, if you're afraid."

That settled it. They shook hands, Billy removed his waistcoat and left it in the care of one of the convicts. His blood was already warming and running faster in his veins. He didn't just want to pummel a man he found contemptible, he wanted a fight; a real contest, fists against fists, to the last man standing. Men were cheering, jeering, calling out encouragement to him. The convicts wanted this and if he wasn't mistaken, more than one Marine was cheering him on as well. Bets were called out and one enterprising Marine doffed his cover and began moving around the circle, simultaneously forming a more defined ring and collecting cash.

Billy flexed the muscles in his back and shoulders. It felt good to be in just his shirtsleeves again, and the months and months of hard labor kept him strong. He considered removing the wrap from his wrist, but his fingers lingered on the stone and he changed his mind.

When they squared off, Howland laughed, trading barbs with his men. He put his fists up, but didn't drop his cocky demeanor. Billy kept his shoulders square and let Howland dance around, feigning strikes, wearing himself out. He finally swung once. Billy dodged it easily, then dodged the next swing. He thrust his fist out in a tight, strong jab right to Howland's nose. It erupted with blood and he stumbled back a few steps. The Marines caught him, egged him on, and pushed him back into the fight.

Billy sidestepped the next lunge, but Howland was learning his opponent. Instead of swinging with his rear hand, he thrust out again with his lead hand, cracking square into Billy's jaw. A true Marine, he continued his assault, landing a blow in Billy's gut, and even stamping his foot down onto Billy's. Still doubled over, Billy planted his feet and thrust forward with his whole body, tackling Howland to the dirt.

The men were hooting and shouting instructions from their vantage point, but their noise was dim against the thrumming of Billy's adrenaline. He barely felt Howland's strikes, or the crunch of his own bones against bone. His blood sang with the primal knowledge that he would win this contest, and he wanted to fucking win. His life had been one loss after the next for so long, losing seemed like the only thing he was capable of. In this moment, though, bashing his fists into Howland while a crowd of men stomped, shouted, howled, he was winning.

Almost as quickly as it started, it was over. The shouts turned to commands to stop, and a few men stepped forward, but Billy had already recovered himself. Howland was thoroughly beaten and patting Billy's leg in surrender. He had to stop himself mid-punch, but he did it. He wasn't Corporal Howland. He wasn't a man to beat a man who was already down. Not ever again.

Two Marines helped him up, congratulating him on a well-fought victory. He wiped a hand across his eyes to clear the sweat away, smearing blood down his cheek. The crowd had grown exponentially during the fight, even the musicians had stopped to watch. He found Abigail standing on a table with Lizzie and a few of the other girls, clutching each others hands. Her chest rose and fell with great effort, and her face was tight with worry. She ducked and stepped down from the table, out of his sight, and Billy was forced to return to the business at hand.

Maybe it was the hot blood of being in a fight, or the clarity of victory, but there was only one thing Billy wanted in that moment, and he couldn't for the life him remember why he shouldn't have it.

* * *

Abigail pushed through the crowd, her heart hammering against her ribs painfully. She couldn't expand her lungs large enough to take in adequate air and the crush of convicts and Marines didn't help.

Albert wasn't among them. She didn't expect him to be. He'd gone off with Silas and Reuben, presumably with Ned as well, for cigars and brandy. He didn't even smoke or drink. He wanted some kind of acceptance from these men, and of all their disagreements, this was something she couldn't fathom.

"I don't think you appreciate how important it is to cultivate relationships with-"

"I don't appreciate cultivating relationships with your flock?" Abigail's voice had risen and cracked. "You wouldn't even acknowledge Kanuna or the other natives until I asked you to. Why are these people better?"

"They're not better, Abigail, but they are Christians, they are here, and they can help us."

Abigail slammed her journal closed and pushed away from the table so she could study herself in the mirror, fixing her hair into something resembling a neat bun. "I have given up learning a valuable trade, with someone I consider a friend. I am participating in your ministry. The job I perform here is one befitting a minister's wife. I don't know what else you want from me."

"These are the people who will form the backbone of this community. You would do well to foster some manner of friendship with them. Our reputation-"

"I don't give a fuck about my reputation!" Abigail cried. Albert blanched at her profanity. She swallowed and lowered her voice. "The backbone of this community will be the pardoned convicts and former soldiers who farm the land, run the smithy, hunt the game and fish, tailor the clothing, and cook the food. If spending what little leisure time I have with those awful women is something you have decided is yet another vaguely-defined key to Heaven, then I'm sorry, but I wish you good fortune in the next life, as I will not be joining you."

They didn't speak again that evening. He followed her out of the tent, stiff and silent, until they joined the rest of the party. Seeing the Marines and convicts mingling in a social setting made her wonder again at Jacobs' declaration that he did not permit fraternization. What a strange world they lived in, defined by so many rules, rules followed only when someone has something to gain.

The rage she felt didn't quell with time. It burned brighter and brighter with each step. She made her disdain of the Lady Kent and Gertie known in a public fashion. She wouldn't be forgiven for that anytime soon. God bless them, Lizzie and the other convict women didn't ask. They simply offered to keep her tankard full. She was so livid, the wine only served to cool her temper.

When the fight broke out, Lizzie led the way to the best place to view all the excitement, then took Abigail's hand when they realized who was fighting. Abigail's heart jumped and raced with each blow. For a few terrifying moments, it seemed like Corporal Howland might have the upper hand, but once Billy took him to the ground, the fight easily went his way.

Even though it was over, she still didn't feel like she could properly breathe. She kept walking until she was well past the crush of the party. Only a few lingered between the tents, taking advantage of the unusual privacy. She kept moving until a destination took hold in her mind: she should see her new house. It was her house, after all, and Jacobs said it was basically finished. It would be nice to see it on her own tonight, without the performance of having to react to it in front of the others.

She picked up a discarded lantern and strode through the moist, tall grass. The building took shape behind the chapel, just a shadow of structure in the moonlight.

It was two rooms, one window in each wall, a stove in the kitchen and dining room. They had built a small dining table with four chairs, two rockers for reading by the stove or window, a reasonably-sized bed in the bedroom, complete with a chest of drawers and a small armoire for their meager wardrobe. Most shocking to her, they had built bookshelves into one wall.

Abigail set the lantern on the table and inspected the shelves, running her fingers along the smooth, polished wood. Albert had lost interest in attempting to supervise the construction almost as soon as it started. There was only one other person who would have even thought to provide a bookshelf, and then built it the way they built bookshelves on a ship.

Tears ran openly down her cheeks and a sob rose up in her throat, threatening to strangle her. Her mind flooded with too many thoughts at once, each worse than the last. All of it hit her simultaneously. She cried over things she thought she'd long passed: her abduction, her father, the loss of her future. She wept over the insidious hate that followed everyone who had once claimed to care for her until they threw her out, cast her off, never to speak to her again. She wept for that day in the garden when she first met Albert and thought he was the answer to her prayers. She wept that she couldn't be the wife he wanted. She wept for Lizzie and the other women, so abused by the Marines here, and she wept for her own powerlessness to stop it.

She thought of Billy, bright and hopeful on the Siren, now so dark and defeated. She remembered the way he appeared in the woods right when she needed him the most, the way he clung to her in the dark cave. She could still feel his blood warm on her cheeks as Ned lashed him.

In a fit of selfishness, she sobbed for all the things she could never have. She sank to the floor, pressing her head against the cool wood as she cried.

The front door pushed open quietly and she started at the intrusion. She froze, lips trembling, cheeks sodden, as Billy stopped short in the doorway. Blood was dried on his lip and under his nose, but most of had been wiped away. His cheek was split and even in the single lantern light, she could see a bruise purpling around the wound. He had entered in a burst of wild energy, his hair stuck up at odd angles from sweat. But when he saw her, his face knitted in concern and he stepped into the cabin, pulling the door shut firmly behind him. He glanced around surreptitiously, but the windows were shuttered. They were hidden from prying eyes.

He took a knee in front of her, then patted the pockets of his blood and dirt-stained shirt, then trousers, until he found a handkerchief. He didn't ask what she was doing here or why she was crying, he just dabbed her tears away. He settled next to her, his back against the shelves. She kept the handkerchief and worried it between her fingers.

"I'm acting like a child." She sniffled. He raised an eyebrow at her. "Do you know where I should be right now?" He shook his head. "When you all returned me to my father, he sent for my cousin in town and together they conspired to ship me off to the great aunt of an extremely distant relation in New York. It would have been my hermitage. I was to go there, care for her in her dotage, and then remain as the lady of an empty house, miles from any neighbor. He even drew up the paperwork to change my name, so I would no longer be an Ashe. It was only because he still harbored some sentiment toward me that he didn't just have me sent to a hospital to live out my days."

Billy grunted his displeasure, then frowned in thought. "That was your cousin? The fancy one?"

"The fancy one?" Abigail tilted her head at him. "When did you see him?"

He actually blushed at that, just a little bright color under the blonde stubble on his jaw. "I may have gone by your house. Once."

"What? Why?" It was so strange. Her memory of those days before everything went to Hell was blurring and changing into something different.

Billy searched for an answer, then laughed once. He ran a hand over his jaw and laughed again, until his shoulders shook. All those awful thoughts and feelings that Abigail had been drowning in evaporated with his laughter. He was big and safe and comforting, and his humor - whatever the reason behind it - lifted her mood.

"If I had known that," he said, "there are quite a few things that might be different right now."

She waited for him to explain, and when he didn't, she asked him, "Please tell me."

His face fell and his eyes dropped to the floor. "Flint asked me to do something in town. Before I left, Gates said a few things to me, made me think. I must've sat outside your house for hours. I didn't know what to do. Then I saw that fancy lad, how happy your were. Honestly, I thought for sure you married him."

Abigail breathed a laugh of her own. The thought of marrying her cousin Matthew was both funny and incredibly sad. The young man she'd once considered one of her closest friends had been so ready to betray her. It's for the best, Abigail. Then she processed the rest of what he told her. "You had a job to do in Charles Town?" He nodded. "You gave them my diary."

He didn't need to answer, it wasn't a question. She'd suspected it as soon as it happened. Captain Flint couldn't very well have sent for it from the jail. Only Billy would have known where she left it, or how to explain the importance of its contents to the magistrate.

"I'm sorry, Abigail." His voice was so low, she might have missed it if she wasn't so aware of him next to her.

She offered him a sad smile. "I had a feeling it was you."

"I knew better. I should have told you a long time ago."

Abigail leaned her head into his shoulder. He jerked in surprise, but let her remain. "I know you think I should hate you. Maybe I should, but I just don't. Even when everything was new and it was all happening around me, I never hated you. You believed in what you were doing."

"Even if I knew you would suffer for it?"

"You had a bigger picture to consider." She felt his warmth seeping into her through her skin, filling all those places that seemed like empty, gaping wounds just moments ago. "I had so many resources available to me to see me through it. I squandered almost all of them, and that was my own fault. Not yours."

His fingers found hers. She liked the way her hand felt so small in his. "Doesn't make it right. That's not even the worst of it."

"No," she stared up at him. His eyes were so blue, it never failed to entrance her. "Maybe one day you'll tell me?"

"I should, one day."

"What did Mr. Gates tell you?"

"What?"

"You said Mr. Gates told you something that sent you to my house. What did he tell you?"

His ears colored again and a muscle in his cheek jumped. "He um," Billy stalled nervously, "he told me I should march to your house, kick down the door, and run off with you. Or maybe it was snatch you out of your window, I don't remember the specifics."

"And you sat outside my father's home for hours debating this course of action?" She imagined him leaning against a tree across the street, just out of sight, arguing with himself over the merits of simply abducting her. It was only because he was Billy that it seemed terribly romantic. "Where do you think we'd be right now if you'd done it?"

"It's always different." The rough pads of his fingers smoothed over hers. "Sometimes I think we'd be somewhere far away from all this, too small for any government to ever give a shit about. I could find honest work and we would have… it would be easy, and happy. Most of the time, I think you'd hate me. I would have taken you away from your father, your whole life. We'd be on the run, never actually free, and I'd be the bastard who did that to you."

She turned her hand over in his so that now this thumb traced over her palm. "I'm afraid I had to learn everything the hard way. I wouldn't have believed any of it if I didn't live through it. Mr. Gates was right, though."

"Hm?"

"I think I might have gone with you." Billy shut his eyes against that. The bruise on his cheekbone was darkening by the second and this close, she could see flakes of dried blood on the blonde hairs that peppered his jaw. His lip was split, it would be open and painful for days. "Why did you fight him?"

He smirked, his lips pulling against the wound. "There are few men in Camp Jackson more in need of getting punched than Corporal Howland."

She studied his hand; his knuckles were raw and red, scraped open on the tops of his first and second fingers. "That's not why."

"No, it's not."

She wished she could do the same, to funnel all her anger and frustration to her fists. She could take her pound of flesh, mete out her trapped fury against those who deserve it.

"Ask me now." She pushed up to her knees before him and took his hand with both of hers.

For a breath, she thought he would. The hope and surprise on his face gave way to resignation. He squeezed her hand gently and shook his head. "You don't want that."

"I know what I want. Ask me."

"No," he said. "You don't know what you're asking. We'd never stop running."

"He won't chase me," Abigail insisted. She knew Albert well enough to know he would let her go. It would hurt him deeply, but he'd let her go.

"England will chase us." He leaned forward to smooth a bit of hair behind her ear. "They know I'm a convict, they'll chase us for that reason alone. I know what it is to run, and I know how it feels to turn your back on people who need you. What about the other girls? Will you just leave them? And the slaves? Every time you teach them more reading, you are giving them a better chance to get away. You will never be able to live with yourself if you abandon these people."

Angry, salty tears ran fresh. "I'm so tired. I just want to go, I want to it to be over." The words came out in a choked sob. The dam, already battered, broke anew. She brought the handkerchief up to her face, but it was useless in her shaking hands. Her heart felt raw and open, like the scrapes and cuts marring him, made worse by the constant emotional pummeling she endured every day. "I don't feel this way anymore."

She watched him shift from lost indecision to action. He pulled her to him until their foreheads rested together. He gripped her by her upper arms, tense until he pulled her into his lap, rubbing up and down her spine, soothing against her bitter tears. He was murmuring to her, but his words were lost among her hiccuping sobs.

Her tears faded gradually, warmed away by the hands stroking her back, the even breathing of his broad chest, the familiar smell that not even Camp Jackson could take from him, all earthy, masculine, clean, and, miraculously, of the ocean. She had felt this all along, hadn't she? When he first carried her out of the belly of that ship to their idle Sundays side by side, carefully avoiding the desire to simply touch each other.

He had, in one moment, cemented himself in her life as her anchor, her safe harbor, her shelter from the storm. Strength that had rained down punishing blows on his enemy enveloped her like something precious. The same arms that could swing a sword and fight a hardened trapper to the death could cradle and comfort her. His nose was tracing down her temple, and his lips brushed against her cheek, tasting her tears. He ran a hand along her hair and jaw until he was tilting her face up to his.

Their faces were so close, it wouldn't take much. He had her in his lap, tight against his chest, so tight she could feel his heart hammering against his ribs. His eyes were darkened and searching her for some signal to move forward or flee.

"This is impossible," she said.

"I know."

His eyes kept flickering to her lips. His own were parted and his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. When she thought she couldn't take another moment frozen like this, he leaned down and pressed his mouth to hers. She sank her fingers into the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer. Their lips moved against each other, quickly escalating from slow, gentle comfort to something harder and more demanding. She whimpered when his teeth grazed along her bottom lip.

Months of tension, secret shared looks, casual brushes from standing and sitting too close to each other, and every other unspoken need that had passed between them exploded. He lifted her effortlessly and had her on her back, her head cradled in his hand, simultaneously tugging her hair loose and cushioning her from the wood floor. The entire world ceased to exist and the only thing that mattered was Billy and closing the distance between them. Anywhere they weren't touching was too far, and where they were touching wasn't enough.

His free hand traveled from her ribs, brushing the side of her breast, down her waist to her hip and thigh, rucking up her skirts until he found the bare skin between her stocking and shift. His hand stayed there and he broke off the kiss. They panted in each others air. To her surprise, he was trembling right along with her. She could feel him hard against her, and experimentally rocked her hips against him. He groaned and the friction from their contact lit a fire that curled her toes still in her shoes.

He ducked his head, but this time his lips captured her earlobe, nipping and sucking, and then repeated the action on the space just under her jaw at her throat. At some point, her hands released his shirt and sank into his short hair. Whatever he was doing to her neck was sending sparks of electricity clear through her entire body. She abandoned his hair so she could explore the broad planes and hard lines of his shoulders, his chest, down the rippled muscles of his core. It still wasn't enough. She tugged at his shirt until it came free and she could finally feel the skin beneath. His breath hitched and his skin jumped at her touch. They laughed into each others mouths, which turned into more kissing, a fevered clash of tongues, lips, even teeth.

Her back and hips arched into him, insistently seeking more. The hand on her thigh gripped her tighter and pulled her closer. He disentangled his other hand and set her head as gently as possible on the floor. He traced her hairline, brushing over her closed eyes, running his thumb over her swollen lips. She kissed the pad of his thumb, savoring the saltiness of his skin.

"Jesus, fuck," he breathed, dipping his head until his forehead touched the cool floor. She was throbbing for him. They were unconsciously rocking against each other, building a slow rhythm. He turned just enough to continue trailing kisses down her throat. "I want you." He alternated to the other side of her neck, laving it in attention. "God help me, I want you so much."

She couldn't form a coherent thought, except to keep murmuring, "Yes, yes, yes," along with everything he said, every touch, every kiss. He nudged her confining kerchief aside until it revealed the skin beneath her neck.

"I want you to be mine." His voice was husky, scraping against the sensitive skin at her collarbone in time with the scruff of his chin.

"I'm yours." She said the words without thinking. She didn't have to think. It was true. He braced himself over her, blinking and confused, thrown off balance by her answer. She took his face between her hands and repeated, "I'm yours."

He nodded, bent to capture her lips again. They were both pulling at each others clothes, shaking and desperate. They were so close.

Then Billy froze. Somewhere in the haze of desire, bells were ringing. The blood pounding in her ears faded, and the pattern of bells got louder.

Billy groaned and dropped his head, deflated. "Oh fuck."

It was like something had been snatched away from her and its loss was gutting. "What?" She could have wept, but for an entirely new reason. She tried to decipher the bells, but her mind was still too muddled. Why had he stopped? Her head was spinning, her blood was pumping everywhere but her mind.

He pushed up, pulling her with him. His face crumpled in pain and he scrubbed a hand from his eyes down his jaw. "Accountability. I didn't think they'd notice this soon."

She was so confused. What was he talking about? What would who notice? Weren't they just on the verge of tipping into a great precipice? Her sense of time had fled; it seemed like she had lived a lifetime knowing only him, and it was all ripped away by bells in the distance.

Billy pulled her to her feet, his eyes dragging down the length of her body. She was suddenly aware of how disheveled she must look, with her hair loose and tangled, and her skirts rumpled and twisted. He'd managed to get her kerchief completely removed, discarded on the floor. The laces at the back of her dress were undone and loose. At least Billy looked as mussed as she felt. His lips reflected what her own must look like, swollen and pink, though the split was bright red with fresh blood. That explained the coppery taste on her tongue.

"I have to go, or they'll count me as missing, too." She didn't follow what he was saying. She'd never heard these bells before. They'd never called an accountability formation off-schedule before. He cracked a shutter, got a look outside, then closed it again. "Stay here. Don't come out unless someone knocks. Just tell them you wanted to see the house."

He wasn't looking at her, instead staring at the closed door. He had to look at her. If he just looked at her, the bells would go away and they could sink back into each other. The world was shifting under Abigail's feet. Everything was off balance and confusing. Her heart stammered again and clammy sweat broke out on her palms. Reality was returning too quickly. "Wait," she breathed. He didn't hear her. He was tucking his shirt back in, adjusting his belt. "Wait," she said louder, pressing her hand to his bicep.

Billy stopped at the door. When he finally locked eyes with her, she saw her own pain and confusion reflected there. The lines around his eyes were drawn tight, matching the deep-set frown lines pulling his mouth down at the corners. There was no time to answer every question.

"I meant what I said." Abigail held her breath waiting for his response. He could say anything, that he had been caught up in the moment, it was only lust, he could remind her of the utter impossibility of any future together.

Instead, he pulled her back into his arms, pressed a kiss into her forehead, then to her lips. "I know. This is not over."

She breathed a sigh of relief and let him go. She pulled the door shut behind him with a click that echoed through the empty house. Alone, she collapsed into one of the rocking chairs and closed her eyes. She worried her lower lip between her teeth and found a pleasant, happy soreness. If she let herself, everything that had chased her to this cabin in the first place would come rushing back to drown her. There would be plenty of time in the future to cry over what she didn't have, of that she was sure. But for this night, she decided to enjoy what she did have.


	9. Chapter 9

Captain Jacobs shifted in the chair across from Colonel Willwater. He tossed his ankle indolently over his knee and let his back stretch the limits of the wood with a protesting groan. For most other colonels, he might have shown more deference, but Willwater was round and red in the cheeks. His wig powder left a fine dusting on the shoulders of his red coat and he wore the soft hands of a man who probably couldn't remember how to load a musket.

Jacobs toed the line of courtesy, pushing a little more, then a little more, secretly pleased with how much he could get away with. The pleasure ran rough against his disgust. Men who bought their commissions and sat on them like fluffy cushions had no business in the uniform. Men like Willwater got better men killed.

"Ah!" Willwater produced a stack of old warrant posters from somewhere in the mess he called a records system. "Take whatever you'd like. My executive officer makes copies of everything."

Jacobs pressed his lips to a thin line and took the entire stack. "Thank you, Sir. About the other matter…"

Willwater waved a dismissive hand. "If you don't know, you don't know."

"Yes," Jacobs stamped down the impulse to scoff and lecture the man, "but if the French outpost is so concerned about two missing trappers as to pay you a personal visit, don't you think we should be a little more proactive? The Chickasaw raiders in their employ-"

"It's an alliance," Willwater interrupted him, "not much different from ours with the Cherokee, and those natives won't be launching any raids into French territory on our behalf anytime soon, will they?"

 _My sources say otherwise_ , Jacobs thought. It wouldn't do to flagrantly contradict a senior officer, especially not when he hadn't divulged his own intelligence-gathering activities outside of Jackson.

He didn't doubt Swann's report on the events that took place on the road between Jackson and the fort during that early winter storm, but he felt a certain proprietary disinclination to share. It was logical to keep those events back on Camp Jackson where they belonged: reporting might lead to an inquiry, which might call his command into question. In truth, though, the logic was just his excuse. Jackson was _his_ camp. Swann was _his_ lieutenant. James was _his_ convict. Mrs. Locke was _his_ responsibility. The last thing he wanted was a bunch of similarly-soft, out-of-touch senior officers and officials nosing into his business.

The downside of not reporting the incident was that apparently those two vagrants Swann had buried in the woods were of some relation to a French officer stationed in New Orleans with enough clout to have men crossing the Appalachians in search of them. _Who would have guessed?_ Otis _and_ LeBlanc _weren't actually nobodies_. Should that officer decide to seek retribution, it would only be too easy to catch Jackson under-defended.

Fortunately, Willwater had been happy to give up 15 soldiers, plus mortars and munitions. Jacobs didn't need to lie about the imminent threats facing a penal colony at the very edge of English territory.

One of those threats might very well be in the pile of warrant posters Jacobs tucked into a leather satchel. Another came in the form of a doe-eyed agitator and her do-gooder husband stirring up thoughts of equality and freedom among slaves and convicts.

All of these threats would have to be dealt with if he was going to lead Camp Jackson into becoming Jackson Colony.

* * *

The euphoria Abigail experienced alone in the cabin faded the instant she set foot back in the camp. She went through all of her options. The most obvious was to carry on an affair in secret until her situation changed. Not that she expected any change, but she knew better than most how tenuous their hold on life was, whether it was illness or outside forces that compelled change. The second option, decidedly less desirable, was to stop this before it started. After all her self-talk about the cowardice of living according to someone else's expectations, it felt like weakness to return there. The third option offered the best of both: the same liberation she felt in shucking the rules without the inevitable frustration and heartbreak of lying. She could just tell Albert what was going on and hope for the best.

In telling Albert, she would not be forced to lie, but she did risk hurting him. She also risked being set aside and losing the financial security he'd offered her. She could end up right back where she started: facing debtor's prison.

Most importantly, she risked him telling Captain Jacobs about the affair, which would have dire consequences for Billy. Was Billy's life worth the risk so that she didn't have to face the guilt of lying? That was a price nothing could convince her to pay.

Her feet carried her back across the damp grass, each step bringing with it a new weight on her shoulders. The enormity of what she was debating pushed her steps deeper and deeper into the soft earth until she thought it might swallow her whole.

 _Oh God, what have I done? What am I doing?_

She would hurt - likely beyond repair - the man who had been nothing but kind and generous to her, risk the life of her best friend, and for what? Because she wanted physical pleasure?

 _It's more than that_ , she reminded herself. This was a betrayal of her marriage that ran deeper than the physical. She wanted Billy mind, body, and soul, and she wanted to give herself to him equally. She wanted to be with him in every way a person can want another. She wanted the marriage she knew she would never have with Albert, no matter how kindhearted he was.

She stopped at their tent and felt her breathing stagger. She was suddenly aware of how she must look. She had checked her reflection in a shuttered window as best she could and hadn't seen any signs of what happened, but surely she must bear the obvious tells. Her lips still felt swollen, and the skin along her throat still burned, hot and raw, from Billy's beard-roughened chin. The memory of how it had felt earning that mild burn coiled low in her belly and sent a shiver of goose flesh down her arms. Her hair must be a mess, hastily retied into a sloppy bun after Billy's hands had undone it, burying themselves in it, tugging and stroking in a way she hadn't known could feel so good. Was her dress re-laced properly? Were her skirts and petticoats hanging the way the should, and not still rucked up nearly to her hips?

He would know. He must know. Albert would take one look at her and see what she saw: Billy's hands and lips all over her, her hands and lips everywhere she could reach on another man.

She wavered, frozen on the dark path and stared at the white canvas door. The camp was quiet. Whatever they had called a formation for had ended the party. All the convicts were confined to quarters, except for those cleaning up with a few Marines on watch over them. There was a somberness that fell over Jackson like a wet, heavy blanket in sharp relief against the joviality and spirit that had been on display just hours earlier.

Their tent was quiet. She could see only a single lantern inside was lit. She would have to face him at some point. Billy was right about one thing: she couldn't just run away, no matter how tempting that option seemed. At the moment, picking up her skirts and sprinting into the mountains was unbearably appealing.

Abigail inhaled a slow, measured breath, and stepped into the tent.

Albert looked up from his book, already reclining in bed. Abigail realized she was a little surprised that he was there at all. His habit of disappearing until well after she was asleep had left her with one last shred of hope that she would not have to face him this very evening. His eyebrows knitted with worry and he pushed his glasses up higher on his face to look at her better.

"Where have you been?" His voice was fraught with concern, not anger. The earth might still reach up to swallow her whole. "When you didn't return after the party, I was worried."

Abigail stepped into the motions of removing her outerwear and preparing for bed. "I'm sorry. I heard that our house was ready. I wanted to see it and fell asleep the moment I sat down on the bed."

She turned away, not able to face him, until his hand took hers with a little squeeze. "Are you feeling alright? It's unlike you to be so tired."

"I'm fine," she returned the gesture with the best reassuring smile she could muster. She slid next to him, tucking the blanket around herself.

Albert set his book aside and kept hold of her hand. He was looking at her so seriously, she knew she must be caught. He must see it all over her face. Her breath crystallized in her lungs as she waited for him to meticulously select his words. "I'm afraid I've been… absent quite often lately, and I know I have been cold and hard to you these past few weeks. I'm afraid I don't know how to proceed here. I have spent my entire life believing that in our faith we can find our answers, but that's not helping very much, is it?"

She couldn't respond to that.

"I can see that I'm pushing you away, from everything; me, your faith, all of it. That's the last thing I want. Abigail, if you feel closer to…" he trailed off, and for a taut second, Abigail was sure he was going to say _Billy_ , he _knew_ , he had to know, "…everything when you're involved with our community here in your own way, I want you to do what feels right to you."

The cold hands of guilt reached out to strangle her. Tears rose and threatened to fall, swimming at the corners of her vision. The blanket around her legs was stifling and itchy. It was so hot, a light dappling of sweat broke out along her scalp.

"Truly," Albert went on, "if working with Kanuna makes you happy, I want you to do it. And I will do my best to remain more open to how others understand and express their faith. I am afraid every day that we are simply lying to ourselves, that we're just depraved and living a farce, but clearly what I've been doing isn't helping. If this will give you some peace, I want you to pursue it. When you feel better, we can discuss some of these matters again."

"Thank you," Abigail whispered. She didn't dare speak another word. If she did, it would all come tumbling out and there would be no stopping it. Instead, he accepted her silence, blew out the lamp, and they went to sleep.

Except Abigail did not sleep. All through the night and into dawn, a steady refrain of _coward, coward, coward_ echoed in her mind.

She attended breakfast as usual the next morning while Albert went about his routine with a fresh, chipper skip to his step. Every face passed her in a blur. She murmured her polite greetings, must have responded to polite questions, got her plate and then stilled, lost in the sea of people. Should she sit with them? What would she say? Anything she did or said would alert everyone and the whole camp would know what she'd done before breakfast was over.

She was so dazed, she would have walked right into him if Billy didn't have better awareness than her. He caught her by the arms before she could barrel into his chest. His hands lingered on her a moment too long, and he dropped them quickly, all too aware of how many people were watching. His eyes were the only thing she truly saw that morning. She saw all the questions there, and then she saw the understanding shutter his face like a shadow.

Abigail didn't know what to do or say, and this wasn't the place. In a single moment without words, they both knew that she couldn't move forward and was paralyzed until some answer presented itself.

The hurt spread across his still battered, bruised face into a hard mask. She knew she needed to do something, give him some kind of reassurance that everything last night hadn't been just a moment of madness or, at worst, a lie, but she couldn't move. She couldn't even wipe the horrified, lost look from her expression. It was all there, right on the surface.

He mumbled an "Excuse me," and walked away from her, leaving her in place, still frozen and lost.

* * *

 _I'm yours_ , that's what she'd said. _I'm yours_. It had seemed unbelievable to Billy in that moment. In retrospect, he was right, but in the moment, surrendering to it had been a revelation.

Billy slammed his ax into the medium-sized tree trunk. He and his team graduated from clearing brush to thinning out the tree line, generating a surplus of lumber for building and burning.

William Manderly was, by all accounts, an abomination of a human being. Pirate, crew killer, disloyal to his friends; he nearly murdered his best friend's defenseless woman, participated in, lead, and ordered attacks that cost innocent lives - children's lives - put slaves to the lash, and abandoned everything he ever held dear in a hate-fueled attempt to bring a single man down. All those wasted lives, wasted energy, so that he could wage his own personal war against James Flint.

Yet for some reason, this woman had offered herself to him - no, she declared she already was his. What had he ever possessed in this life that he hadn't taken by force?

She was so good. If his life had been just a little different, she'd be his wife and he'd spend his days doing everything in his power to keep her smiling. When she smiled at him, leaned into his touch, let herself simply be with him, he could see himself reflected in her eyes, and _he_ was good. There was hope for that man. That hope, those brief, glowing moments when she shined down on him, was the revelation.

But he wasn't that man, was he? _When she finds out what you've done, she'll never look at you again_. If she knew what he was, she would recoil from his touch. She would be afraid of him. She should be afraid of him.

Fortunately for him, it seemed she didn't have to know the truth in order to turn her light from him. In ten days, they had run across each other more than once, and each time her cheeks would blanch, then she'd duck her head and scurry away. The first time she did this, Billy understood. There would not be a repeat performance. There would be no more stolen afternoons together, letting the world slip away, just enjoying each others company for what it was, without all the other bullshit drowning him in muck. Despite his assurance to her that he was all in, and his own personal hope, it was over. He waited at their pond on Sunday, but she never arrived, and Billy knew.

The strangest part was how badly it hurt. Her rejection left him aching. The one person who saw him as good wouldn't see him anymore. That moment of light when he thought his life might amount to more than this purgatory was extinguished. In many ways, he was right back on Skeleton Island: alone, angry, deeply sad; recounting every way he had gone wrong, and fantasizing about what he could have done differently to achieve a different outcome.

A patroller - one of the soldiers Jacobs brought back from the fort - marched a cohort of slaves past where he was working. They would be out in the fields until the sun went down, then eat a fraction of the food Billy got. The rhythmic clanking of their chains took Billy right back to that fateful night in Nassau when he'd finally turned on Flint.

" _Chain 'em," Billy scowled at the dark-skinned men and women staring at him, full of fear and fury. Hadn't he promised to lead a revolt against England and all her institutions? Didn't that include these people? He didn't have time to think about it. What he did have was the very real threat that they would turn on his men in a bid for mercy from the plantation owners. He couldn't have that. The only thing that mattered was getting his brothers free from tyranny, which included the Royal Navy and James Flint._

 _He didn't stay to watch his men place irons around their hands and feet. He told himself he had too much to do to worry about overseeing that activity, but in truth, he didn't think he could watch it happening and not put a stop to it. He knew firsthand what it felt like to be shackled. Doing it to others was so wrong he didn't know where to begin except to focus on the task at hand. So he ignored it, just as he ignored the reports of reprisals against slaves all over New Providence._

 _These were problems he would solve later. Once they beat the Navy back, and once Flint was out of the picture, he'd fix it. He'd make good on his promises and turn New Providence into a refuge. It would happen. Just not right now_.

He deserved this. He deserved every moment of this. He deserved it all the more because he thought he could expend any time or effort on anything other than repaying the monumental debt he owed.

He pushed Abigail from his thoughts and studied the slaves walking by. They had names, these men. This group was comprised of Chiku, Jareth, Arthur, Djimon, and two women he didn't recognize. That would change. He would know them as well as he'd once known his own crew.

There would never come another time in his life when he would ever look upon people in need and think, " _Just not right now_."

Their backs were crisscrossed with scabbed gashes and burns. The owners hadn't taken the escape of three slaves ten days ago lightly. They responded with rounds of lashings with flaming switches, families were broken up and separated in both work and quarters, they even left people in those nightmarish hot boxes for days on end.

Three people died in nine days.

This was intolerable, untenable. Billy would wait until the tension lifted, then he would find an opportunity to approach Marcus again. Maybe the man wouldn't want to facilitate any more escapes given the results of the last. Maybe he would want to get more people out of here faster.

Maybe it was time to consider a more permanent solution.

* * *

After a bit of cajoling - Albert cajoling Abigail, then Abigail cajoling her way back into Lady Clarissa's good graces - Abigail got two house slaves back for her reading lessons. The women and children were still kept away. Abigail missed Auba and Mimba; their weekly attendance had always brought the kind of sharp humor Abigail liked.

Idez and Tariq were excellent students already. They would surpass their convict counterparts in no time at all. Lord Kent had expressed with sweeping grandeur that he was so enlightened to allow his and Mr. Rowling's bodymen to become lettered. They were among the few to escape the punishments he wrought when the escape was discovered. For a person who kept men as chattel, Reuben Kent was thoroughly convinced that the two slaves who dressed him, prepared his rooms, ran his petty errands, might not appreciate his definition of kindness.

They resumed their lessons on Saturday evening after supper in the chapel. It was exactly three weeks since the night she had nearly given herself to Billy, and each day was still agony. The sun burned too brightly. The air was wet with humidity and Abigail had to cover herself from head to toe to avoid vicious mosquitoes and biting flies. Her work with Kanuna stalled. Everything she finished was wrong, or half-done, or just poorly done. He didn't correct her or tell her to stop coming, but he did make sure she only worked on spare bits of leather. "For practice," he said.

Moving into the cabin with Albert had hurt, but at least they had more privacy. When he wasn't there, she was free to sit in the darkness with the shutters pulled tight against the outside world. The daily noise of the camp was far enough away that she could even nap in the afternoons, an activity she hadn't partaken in since leaving her gilded prison in Philadelphia. She had yet to put her books on the bookshelves; those remained in her trunk. When she came in one afternoon to find Albert's books on one shelf, she nearly ripped them all down. She didn't, of course, and she had no way of explaining to him why she should care so much.

It took nearly all of her energy to put together this evening's lesson, and corralling the strength to face people in a quiet, personal setting was testing her new limits. She did it, though. She answered their questions, adapting her lesson plan as they went to keep up with how quickly they were advancing.

They were almost done when Tariq set his book aside and asked if they could talk about something else.

"Your husband, the Reverend, he says we're all equal under God. I don't understand it."

Abigail held his steady gaze. There was no accusation in his words, not even a question, really. "I don't always understand it, either, Mr. Tariq."

"The boss's say God blessed them with slaves, that this is our place. The Reverend says we must seek God in order to be equal… he says 'elected'?"

"Yes, my husband believes that God has chosen the saved people, and as such, all who are elected are equal in His eyes."

Tariq thought about this, then shook his head. "Why should I care about a God who says I am chosen but allows me to be in chains? I don't care about your God. I want to go home." It was a plaintive statement, simple and direct, without a pitched whine or even sadness.

There it was: the same discomfort Abigail shared whenever Albert discussed election. "God did not grant anyone a divine right to own other people."

"And what would you do about it?"

Idez didn't speak at all throughout the exchange, but his amber eyes bored into her.

"Nothing. It seems all I am capable of is submission."

The was a noise at the door, feet shifting on the wood frame. Her students looked up and Abigail turned over her shoulder. Billy leaned in the doorway of the chapel, arms crossed, wearing a deep frown. Sweat broke out on Abigail's palms. How long had he been standing there? How long had he been that tall? He filled the doorway so much, he had to step in, otherwise he would have had to hunch to avoid the frame. He blinked in surprise, as if he'd been engrossed in the lesson.

"Pardon me," he cleared his throat, avoiding Abigail's eyes, "I was just looking for Marcus."

"I can get him," Idez said. The students stood around Abigail, collecting books and returning the pews to their normal positions.

Abigail was rooted in place, as she was every time she'd seen him over the past three weeks. Any second now the students would leave, and maybe Billy would stay. What on Earth could she say to him? She needed him to stay. She could sink into his big arms and let him comfort her. She could tell him how listless and awful she felt, how she had given up on ever regaining her footing in this life, and he would tell her everything was alright. Maybe it could even go back to the way things were before.

He spared her one look, swallowed, then followed Idez out into the night.

Abigail stayed in the chapel until her tears dried.

* * *

"You are still not well."

It was not a question. Another two weeks had gone by, and Abigail wasn't eating more than once a day. She went through her routine in a blind, moving from one task to the next until she could lay her head down on her pillow and wait to start over again the next day. Albert's new attitude only served to make her feel worse, and she could actually feel the frustrated anger rolling off of Billy any time their paths crossed. She hurt him. She was continuing to hurt her husband every day she withheld the truth.

She had her two slave students, but the workload for the convicts had risen so sharply, that left her with, well, two students. She wondered every day why she didn't just run away. She was helping no one here, and hurting the people she was closest to.

Perhaps she didn't survive Lowe's ship, or the sacking of Charles Town. Perhaps she died and this was her Hell.

"There's so little I can offer you as a husband, and out here it has become abundantly clear that many of the things I once thought essential to life and morality are not so important. What higher purpose can we possibly be serving here?"

Abigail flexed her toes under the covers. This was still the only time they ever had to quietly talk, and she didn't know if she'd ever again feel the energy required to talk Albert through another philosophical debate.

"I don't know. I don't feel like I'm serving anyone or anything. I'm not even a good wife." The bigger bed provided ample space for them to not touch at all when they sat up against the headboard. "I've been trying, I swear I have, but-"

"I know you have."

"I don't know how to feel alive again," she whispered, staring blindly at the clean wood planks that formed the wall of their bedroom. "I keep waiting for the solution, the answer, but it doesn't come."

Albert took a deep breath and set his glasses aside. "You were feeling alive, though, for a while here." She didn't argue or confirm it, but they both knew it was true. There was a long pause as Albert carefully considered his next words. He took on a look of such resolution, Abigail realized she hadn't seen him look like this since he proposed. He was nervous, but he had something to say, something he felt was more important than his own discomfort. "I see how you look at him, and how he looks at you. I thought I would be angry, I know I should be angry, but I'm not. I thought I could beat this into submission. If we could just live by this standard, then everything would be simple, but it's not. I certainly don't feel any better, do you?"

"No." She should feel shocked to hear him so bluntly state it, but it was confirmation of what they both already knew to be true.

"My congregants are slaves, women brought out here on embellished charges so they can entertain the proper English citizens, people who've had everything stolen from them. I know it may look this way, especially in the past few months, but I am not blind. I cannot continue like this. I will not. This changes now, Abigail."

"I don't know what that means."

"It means," he took her hand, "that I know forcing you to live by someone else's standard is torture for you in so many ways. I asked you to be my partner, and I mean it. That means I have to be your partner in return. Will you be my partner?"

"Yes."

"I don't know how we proceed, but I think that together we can come up with something. It has to start right here. Abigail, I don't care what they think of me. They can call me half a man, whatever they like. When you're happy, I'm happy, and I want you to be happy."

Abigail faltered. She wanted to believe him, but what he was implying was so outlandish, so unheard of, coming from anyone less sincere would have been an obvious joke, or even a trap.

"He makes you happy?" She nodded. "Then I am happy for you. Go to him. That doesn't change our partnership."

" _What_?" She thought his head might be twirling around on his neck in circles.

"I mean it. We both know this isn't a proper marriage. If you will be my partner in this endeavor, to do something actually worthwhile out here, and if I am to call myself your true friend, then I want you to do this. I have never felt more right about anything."

 _Not a proper marriage._

What was a proper marriage, anyway? She had no reference for one. She'd heard of men taking mistresses, and she'd heard of scandalous adultresses caught and hanged by society. She'd heard especially dark rumors of bacchanalian libertines sharing each other with others, even groups. But she'd never considered such a thing for herself, and certainly not once she met her minister husband.

Could he really be suggesting this? His warm brown eyes held no doubt, nor the anger any other husband would express if he'd been forced to admit his wife's attention had wandered so far. He wasn't lying, or trying to trick her. There were no games there, only sincere optimism, that same optimism that drew her to him in the first place.

"I guess my motives aren't entirely selfless," Albert said. "There may come a day when I need your forgiveness much more than you need mine."

Abigail studied him in the flickering lamp light, and still found no signs of deception, no indication that he was setting her up. "Whatever it is, Albert, you can trust me."

"I know." He gave her a sad smile and brought her hand up to his lips for a chaste kiss. "We should get some rest. Tomorrow is Sunday."


	10. Chapter 10

Billy tossed his arm up to cover his eyes with a groan. The men in his barracks were unusually loud this afternoon. Or maybe they were always this loud, but he was never here to know otherwise. For the first time since discovering his refuge, he made the resolution to spend Sunday in bed resting, as one does on a Sunday. Without Abigail, the place didn't feel the same. It was empty, like every other part of his existence. The emptiness mocked him.

He would go back the next time Marcus needed money and the place would remain a secret. Marcus never asked where a convict shipped from London had acquired a seemingly endless supply of precious jewels.

The acquisition of his share of the Urca treasure had been the culmination of the very, very few good decisions Billy made after waking up on that island. Finding Flint's buried chest hadn't been particularly difficult and he had little else to do while there. During his marooning on Skeleton Island, in a fit of what he now realized was paranoid insanity, he'd split the treasure up and buried or hid it all over that bloody rock. Some was even secreted away under the coral that made the island a death trap for ships. When a lucky ship had gotten close enough to send a launch, he'd cut a simple deal with the captain: in exchange for his help safely getting them back out to sea and his help locating just under half the treasure, they'd ferry him back to England and not bother him about the two equal shares of treasure he intended to take for himself.

His share went right into a safe deposit box. He never felt right using it, but liked the idea that if he ever needed to run, he had the means to do so. The other he'd personally delivered to Ben Gunn's home in Ireland. He assured Ben's flabbergasted mother that it was rightfully theirs, arranged a trustworthy jeweler to make regular exchanges with, and left without ever telling them his name. Ben would figure it out.

Although he had done this out of a genuine sense of guilt and responsibility for Ben, his little act of repentance had been a wise investment. When he was arrested, he was allowed to notify his closest living relative of his pending banishment. Given that Billy didn't even know if he had any living relatives, and wouldn't contact them regardless, only one name came to mind. Billy sent word to Ben, who had conveniently already returned to Ireland to investigate the mysterious treasure now in his mother's possession. Ben, in turn, collected Billy's loot from the bank, took a small percentage of it for himself, and made the Atlantic crossing once more. First he deposited Billy's share at a little hidden water feature just a mile or so outside of Camp Jackson, then he ventured back to the West Indies with the rough map Billy provided him of all the hiding places he could remember on Skeleton Island. No doubt by now he had acquired the remaining treasure and should be living the good life. The tales of Long John Silver's frenzied quest for Flint's Spanish prize were a point of private hilarity Billy couldn't share with anyone, and that was alright.

Everybody wins, and Billy could sleep with himself at night. About this subject, at least.

Giving the bits of his treasure to Marcus and his people was the first thing he'd actually done with it that didn't make him feel dirty. It was a start.

He tossed in his rack first this way, then that. It was bloody hot in this tent. His skin itched and stung, but he couldn't see any mosquitoes or biting flies. The chiggers and biting gnats and God-only-knows what else were both unseen and inescapable.

The fucking tent stank of men, men without the benefit of a fresh ocean wind. It always smelled fresh by the pond, and when the bugs became a nuisance, he could just slip into the water until the sun lower and they retreated to wherever it was insects went in the cool evening air.

The impulse to leave the crowded, reeking tent and escape to his retreat was overwhelming. It warred in his body against the knowledge that he would find no peace there, not anymore. But he had no peace here, either. At least out there it was quiet, and he could stay out and watch the stars all night, if he chose to. No one would bother him and no one would notice any difference when he formed up tomorrow morning with the others.

Surrendering to habit won out in the end. He could berate himself for his weakness later, at least he didn't have to listen to the chattering, yelling, utter bullshit that apparently went on in the barracks on Sundays. With his hands firmly in his pockets and head down, he marched out of the camp and into the woods, seeing nothing but his booted feet kicking over the earth, splashing across the shallow stream, then ascending the boulders to their hidden passage.

When he emerged on the other side, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the late afternoon sunshine, but he immediately recognized the figure sitting on a blanket on the opposite shore, arms wrapped around her propped up knees and her head resting there, hiding her face from the sun and from him. He stopped mid-step, but she didn't look up or even move at all. She hadn't heard him approach. Her hair hung in loose waves, shining in the low sunlight. He could turn back now, and she would never know he'd been there.

Anger rippled through his core, licking at the heels of his battered pride. He shouldn't have come here. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders, shake her, and demand an answer, an explanation, anything.

Instead, he took a slow step forward, and then another, slipping into the shallow water then back onto the shore with hardly a sound. As he got closer, he could see the subtle shake of her shoulders and heard a soft hiccup and sniffle. Oh, fuck . The impulse to shake her instantly became the impulse to hold her, and he cursed himself. If he couldn't learn to tell this woman "no," she'd be the death of him.

She jerked, startled by the sudden awareness of his presence. Her eyes were glassy and red, like the tip of her nose and her cheeks. She sniffed again and stood while wiping her eyes, though nothing could hide that she'd been crying.

"I thought you weren't going to come." Her voice was surprisingly clear. She dropped her hands from her face, only to wring them together in front of her skirts. "I thought I'd really ruined everything this time."

He stamped down the urge to take her into his arms, fisting his hands at his sides. "What are you doing here?" It came out more gruff than he intended, but that was for the best. Her lips pursed into a tight frown and her eyes dropped.

"I wanted to talk to you," she said in a soft voice.

No. No no no . He would not, could not, surrender this easily. "I'm not sure that's a good idea." Abigail swallowed at that and, God help him, her eyes started to glass over. No, he couldn't quit. He took a step away from her, and she didn't follow. "And then what? We go back to pretending like we're not doing anything wrong until you have another crisis of conscience? And then you push me away again and we start all over? I can't do it, Abigail."

She shook her head. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I've done that to you."

He took another step back. "There's nothing to be sorry for. You and I both wanted something we can't have, but it's over. I will not continue this."

"Will you at least hear what I have to say?"

Billy shifted his weight from foot to foot, considering his options. If he was a stronger man, he'd just leave. There was nothing she could possibly say to change their situation. There was no running away, no erasing their reality and pretending they could have what they both wanted. With that in mind, he started to turn back to the passageway, then her voice stopped him.

"He knows, Billy."

A chill ran down his spine. He knows ? His mind began ticking off the escape he'd never really planned, but always felt the need to consider. He had his money, he'd leave a portion for Marcus. He'd need to get his record from Jacobs' office, along with the pardon. The pardon would do him no good if he didn't destroy the records identifying his pardoned identity as a convict, and his freedom would do him no good if he was immediately identified by one and all as an ex-pirate. Where would all this leave Abigail? Would Locke set her aside? For a moment of selfish madness, he was a little too eager with the idea that he might have to take her with him, for her own good, of course. The questions and problems turned and turned like a top, until one dangerous, traitorous thought gained traction.

"What do you mean, 'he knows '?" Billy spoke the words carefully, each syllable turning the thought that he could keep her to ash. Had she told her husband, knowing damn well what would happen if Locke should take his complaint to literally anyone?

"I didn't tell him." She fiddled with her hands, but he could still see her trembling. "He just knew."

"Fuck," he muttered. He started to pace back the way he'd come, then turned and paced back in Abigail's direction. A headache was crystallizing right in the center of his forehead. "Do you know what he's going to do? I can't stay here anymore, I have to run."

He was so distracted by competing concerns over what move to make first, he didn't notice her approach until her hands gently pressed into his biceps. "You don't have to run." She worked her way into his vision, forcing him to be still in body and mind, and for the moment, all he could see were those bright, rich eyes. "He won't tell anyone."

That didn't make any sense. He could feel himself shaking his head, still preparing for his flight from Jackson, but her touch kept him in place. He must have been murmuring arguments because she was quietly countering his every thought.

"I know it sounds mad, but he was happy. He's not angry. He told me to come to you."

"No, no." He pulled away, but she followed. "This is a trick. It's a set up. They want a reason to get rid of us. Abigail, we both have to go-"

"It's not a trick." Her hands fluttered up to cup his jaw. If she would just stop touching him, he could think clearly and get moving. "Billy," her lips formed his name, "it's not a trick. I don't know how to explain it, but everything is fine."

He closed his eyes and tried to focus on making sense of her words. He opened his eyes and she was still there. "No, that's not possible." He had seen his fair share of liberal relationships. He spent most of his adult life on a pirate ship or in Nassau, after all. But that wasn't her, and it definitely wasn't her nervous, blushing, stammering husband.

Her hands dropped and damn it all, he already missed her touch. She chewed her full lower lip and faltered. "I don't understand it either, but you have to already know that he and I don't have," she paused and swallowed, drawing his eyes to the delicate column of her throat, "well, it's never been a conventional marriage."

Damn right, Billy didn't understand. Were their roles reversed, and Billy was her husband and Albert the interloper, Billy would kill him. Of course, if their roles were reversed, he would leave no room for Abigail to ever describe their marriage as unconventional .

This was not at all what he'd expected to find at the pond today.

Billy pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. It was simply impossible that she could be standing before him saying these things.

"I meant what I said." Her voice was so soft, Billy might have imagined it. "I understand if you don't want anything more to do with me. The way I treated you was unforgivable. But I want you to know that I meant everything I said."

I'm yours . He'd allowed himself to believe her. Billy closed his eyes again, terrified that if he faced her, he would believe her again, and when she ran from him again, he'd be lost. He finished turning away from her and fixed his gaze at a point deep in the woods, where it was already getting dark. If he could just not look at her, he wouldn't fall into the abyss.

He heard her exhale a shaky breath, and then the air shifted with her movement. "I'm sorry." She was leaving. She was really going to walk away.

He shot his arm out, snaked around her waist, and pulled her tight to him until their lips finally met.

* * *

Abigail knew she'd hurt him, but she didn't realize how badly until today. He could hardly stand to look at her. It didn't help that she still couldn't quite verbalize whatever agreement she and Albert had come to. She still wasn't sure exactly what that agreement was, but the implied idea was real enough.

If she could only say it, speak the words out loud, then he would look at her and know she was telling the truth, and that she was here for good this time. She had nothing holding her back now, no more secrets to keep or betrayals eating her alive from the inside out.

It was too late, though. Abigail could see it in the hard set of his shoulders, and the clench of his fists that was so tight, the veins in his forearms were almost pulsing.

A lump rose in her throat. It was outrageous that she could still feel like crying after all that she'd already done. All the courage she'd worked up to come out here evaporated. It had been slowly simmering away with each passing hour that he didn't arrive, and now it was gone.

"I'm sorry," she said, though she couldn't hear her own voice over the hot rush of shame and defeat. What part of all this she was more ashamed of she couldn't say.

She moved to make a dignified retreat, but an iron arm looped around her waist, pulling her up short so suddenly she gasped. His lips were on hers in a bruising kiss, silencing any further apologies or explanations, even coherent thought. All she could feel was him, from the hard wall of muscle she was caged against to the hands cradling the back of her neck, tipping her head back for easier access, taking what he wanted.

His hands left her head and neck, and Abigail was scooped off her feet, their lips only parting long enough for quick, shallow breaths before crashing back together. They shared a fervent urgency, pushing and pulling against each other with almost violent abandon. This close to him, wrapped up against him, her hands fisted in the collar of his shirt, his scent washed over her. She loved the heat radiating off of him, and the way his short hair felt choppy and soft against her palms, and the way the scruff of his jaw burned her skin. Her lips and cheeks and neck and god-only-knows what else would be red after this, and a primal corner of her mind wanted it. She wanted everyone and anyone to look at her and see that he had branded her.

Her back found cool earth and she distantly remembered she had actually brought a blanket. It was spread neatly next to the shore where she'd sat for two hours before the despair really began to set in. It didn't matter; she didn't care. Anything that might interrupt this was a loathed enemy.

Billy's body covered hers, enveloping her in that masculine, sea-swept scent she so loved and the powerful, unforgiving strength that still managed to distract her on sight. His weight on her, molded against her, felt delicious and sent every nerve tingling. She was entirely at his mercy and that wild, untamed part of her reveled in it.

She was tugging at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin, as he was making quick work of pushing the skirts and petticoats and underclothes out of the way until she could finally open for him. He settled between her legs, but didn't stay settled for long. She wrapped her legs around him, drawing him closer. She needed him closer. He apparently felt the same; one hand gripped her bottom, keeping her pressed tight against him, and dear God, she'd never felt anything like that . His other hand was tangled with hers, working his belt and trousers free much more efficiently than she was.

Their lips never parted, save to tear apart for a gasping breath and then crush back together. He had a feral quality she hadn't seen before. The heat between them burned from a mutual exigency - more dire and demanding than before, spurred on by the unspoken shared terror that if they did not take this step right now, their final chance would vanish into the wind.

She felt him and a moment later he entered her in a flood of sensation that overwhelmed and seared so keenly she cried out. Billy froze over her, tore his lips away and staring at her with a look of agonized shock and confusion. She wanted to speak, to tell him it was alright, that it was more than alright, but he was so much more than she'd experienced. It left her spinning and racing to catch up with what her body already understood. The initial shock faded as her body adjusted to him, replacing that keen ache with an intoxicating pressure and fullness.

Billy braced himself over her, a tremble rolled from his shoulders down his arms, she could even feel it in the muscles at his core. "I thought…I thought…" he struggled to get the words out between his strangled breaths. His eyes were so bright, wavering between intense focus on her and, a flickering haze as lost as she felt. He brought a hand up to her cheek, suddenly gentle and soft. "I'm sorry." He shook his head and his mouth struggled to form words, but fell short. "Oh, God, I didn't mean to-"

Abigail captured his lips, tugging the lower lip between her teeth, and rocked her hips against him. He groaned into her mouth so she did it again. It was like lightning had struck. He filled every part of her and the friction was unlike anything she'd ever felt. He finally relaxed just enough to return the gesture, slowly, tentatively, still hyper aware of just how easily he might hurt her, but too lost in the moment to stop.

They found a cadence together. It started slow; Billy pressed his forehead against hers, never taking his eyes off her. He cradled her face between his hands, rubbing small circles against her cheek with the pad of his thumb. She could get lost in those impossibly blue eyes.

Something was building that she couldn't name, but it drove her to meet him thrust for thrust. She could feel his heart thundering where her hands dug into the material of his shirt. His heartbeat matched her own; a wild, hammering staccato so strong it might burst from her chest.

When it finally happened, Abigail saw stars. Waves of pleasure exploded until she couldn't control cry that escaped her throat. Billy followed her over the edge. One hand fisted in her hair to bring her still-moaning lips to his while the other returned to her bare hip, slamming into her and holding her in place as his own release pulsed hot inside her.

The world finally began to slow down and settle again. Blood was returning to her lust-addled mind, with it came a sense of peace. She didn't want to move from this spot and the idea of physically parting from him was abhorrent.

Billy's forehead returned to hers and his grip relaxed until he pushed up, carefully smoothing away the hair he had pulled loose. His face was a flushed mask of concern and for a terrifying moment, Abigail wondered if he was about to tell her how wrong this was, or how awful she must have been. Her own husband hadn't been able to bring himself to complete this act with her. It stood to reason that she was displeasing, but she couldn't bear the thought of Billy confirming that fear.

"I'm sorry," he whispered through a hoarse voice. "You've been married, I thought… why didn't you tell me?"

Abigail couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up. Her lips grazed the line of his jaw and she could taste the sweat that had accumulated. "I wasn't a virgin." She trailed a series of small kisses down his jaw, tasting him, feeling the muscles there jumping at the contact.

He pulled back just far enough to give her a single arched brow of such exaggerated doubt, Abigail erupted into laughter. Muscles she hadn't known she possessed flexed against him and his skepticism vanished into a wince and sharp intake of breath. He reluctantly withdrew, covered himself, and resettled next to her, still stroking her hair and cheek. "Are you sure? Because that was…" he trailed off and shook his head.

"Yes," Abigail nodded, "I'm sure. I mean, just once. We tried again, but I'm afraid I must not be very pleasing."

Billy scoffed, then brought his fingers to cover his eyes and groaned, before scrubbing his hand down his face and returning to her hair. "There are many reasons why a man may not want to fuck," he cringed at the word, "but I feel qualified to say that you are not displeasing." He studied her carefully, the worry knitted his brow. "I'm so, so sorry, to just take you like that. I acted like an animal."

Abigail took his hand and brought to her lips, were she could place light kisses on his fingertips. "I'm not sorry." He looked like he wanted to argue until she let her mouth linger on the pad of his forefinger. "I wanted this."

He bent his head, embracing her in a slow, easy kiss. "I promise it can be better. Next time." Doubt flashed in his eyes. "There will be a next time?"

"Yes," she answered immediately. "I'm not going anywhere, Billy."

"Thank Christ," he muttered before pulling her in again. They tumbled together, laughing and kissing as the last rays of sunlight dipped below the horizon.

* * *

"Ouch." Abigail pressed her wounded fingertip to her lips and tasted the tiny drop of blood. She would be lucky if she didn't lose the use of her index finger entirely.

Lizzie arched a dark, slender brow, no doubt counting the number of stray needle pricks Abigail endured that afternoon. "And why did you want to join us this afternoon, Ma'am?"

"I just need to keep my hands busy." It was true enough. Normally she'd be hauling water out for the men and women working on the fields, and then join Kanuna, but today brought a heavy storm that kept nearly everyone in their tents.

"If they stay any busier, you're like to ruin that shirt." Lizzie pushed her material and re-centered it, keeping her stitches neat, even, and blood-free. "You've been stitching bridles for the past month. Leather's harder to sew than this."

Abigail's hand stilled. "I'm just bad at this."

"No you're not." Lizzie leaned back on the bench until her back rested against one of the heavy tent poles. She narrowed her eyes at Abigail and pursed her lips. "Your head's not here. Trouble at home?"

Abigail inhaled and exhaled a deep breath. This tent was crowded with women, but most were absorbed in their work or in conversation with each other, and the steady patter of rain on the canvas created a natural sound buffer. It certainly wouldn't do to have any of them overhear Lizzie's studious scrutiny of Abigail's distraction.

Lizzie scooted forward, studying Abigail much too close to be polite. Abigail felt the distinct sensation of being some kind of medical experiment. Her eyes flashed bright with triumph. "Oh, it's not trouble at all, is it?" She abruptly returned to her work with a self-satisfied hum. "To be perfectly honest, I didn't think he had it in him."

The blood left Abigail's face and her hands froze in place. How could she possibly know? There were a grand total of three people in Camp Jackson who could know about her relationship with Billy. If others knew, it meant one of them was a gossip or much worse, someone had seen them.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean." She cursed the telling quaver of her voice.

Lizzie scoffed. "Come on, I'm a working girl. I know what a woman who's been good and fucked looks like, and you, my dear, are glowing. I just never imagined the reverend…" she trailed off in thought, then her eyes narrowed again. "He doesn't have it in him," she practically hissed under her breath. "What did you do? You little doxie!" Lizzie unleashed a string of teasing accusations, grinning and wagging a finger at Abigail.

Abigail snatched the finger and shot a panicked look around the tent. No one seemed to have noticed, but Lizzie quieted nonetheless. As best she could at any rate, still struggling to keep her giggling under wraps against Abigail's hushing. "For the love of God, please stop before someone hears this."

"Sorry, sorry." She didn't look the least bit sorry. She scooted even closer, so they could properly whisper. "I just wouldn't have expected it from either of you."

Abigail clutched the mostly forgotten material in her hands. If anyone looked hard enough, it would be painfully obvious she wasn't working on it. "I guess sometimes people can surprise you."

"Apparently so." Lizzie was still practically vibrating with excited energy. She nudged Abigail with her hip. "Are you going to make me interrogate you? Who? What are you going to do about Mr. Locke? You know it's not going to stay secret out here for long. Unless you're both stepping out, though I still don't really see him having that much of a wild side. Or maybe, does he, you know, want to watch? Religious types always surprise me."

Abigail knew she must have been staring at Lizzie like a fish, because Lizzie finally looked back up from her shirt and snorted. She took Abigail's hand and gave it a light squeeze. "No need to panic, it's more common than you think."

"Oh."

"You look like you're eating your cheeks."

Abigail relaxed a measure and abandoned the effort to look busy. She kept her attention firmly on her tender fingertips. "This is new to me, you know. Anyone who so much as discussed something like this would have been…"

"Banished to a penal colony?"

"Precisely," Abigail said, finally matching Lizzie's amusement.

"They make such a fuss, and for what, you know?" Lizzie picked up her needle again. "I don't like potatoes. I hate 'em. They taste like dirt and begging. No one tells me I'm going to Hell because I do or don't like something."

Abigail frowned. The air inside the tent was stifling with the confined smoke of the lanterns trapped by the moisture outside, mingling with the smells of moldering clothes and women who had gone too long without a real bath. She might never get used to the smell of bodies packed into a too-small space. "And no one could ever make you want… potatoes? Not if they were fried or cooked with different spices?"

"They'd have to hide it pretty well."

"And you wouldn't be angry if your husband decided to make potatoes for himself?"

Lizzie snorted again. "I wouldn't be married, but no, I wouldn't begrudge my imaginary husband all the potatoes he wanted, or getting potatoes at his friend's house or from the inn. The man can have all the bloody potatoes he wants because I love him – this imaginary man – and it's not skin off my nose if he wants to enjoy a plate of mash."

Abigail hummed under her breath, working the rough material between her fingers.

"A piece of advice?" Lizzie waited until Abigail could face her. "If you're going to do it, you ought to be able to say it."


	11. Chapter 11

He'd been terrified at first, after it happened. He was horrified with himself. He'd taken her like a man possessed and no amount of her reassurances could convince him that he hadn't hurt her. What was worse was just how good it had felt. He would have done it again if there'd been time. The terror was compounded by the fact that he would most certainly run across her husband. Was Abigail right in her assessment? He didn't think she would intentionally mislead him, but that didn't mean she hadn't been mislead, or simply misunderstood what he gathered was a largely unspoken agreement. Unspoken agreements were the worst kinds of agreements: far too much room for differences in interpretation.

When he did come face to face with Albert - the very next day - he'd frozen like an idiot while the other man smiled congenially, nodded and said, "Good day, Mr. James!" then went along his way. Swann had cast a curious look over his shoulder, but shrugged whatever thought he had about the exchange away. Billy brushed it off, assuming Albert simply didn't know.

What really changed Billy's persistent assumption that this had to go wrong was when Albert asked him to take a look at a loose floorboard in the chapel. Except when Billy knelt to inspect the offending wood, there wasn't a loose floorboard in the chapel.

"I wanted to thank you, for your discretion." Albert tugged at his collar.

"Sorry?" Billy looked up from the quite secure floorboard. This could not be happening.

Albert cleared his throat. "I understand you might think less of me, of my ability to do my job here, but… oh, there's just so much ugliness in the world, isn't there? I think I'd be squandering one of His most precious gifts by standing in the way of two people who love each other." He fell silent and Billy could only gape at him. Any second now, the tide would change, the other shoe would drop, and Billy'd be in manacles getting dragged to the noose. Albert frowned, misunderstanding Billy's confused silence. "You do love her, don't you?"

"Yes." It was maybe one of the easiest, most natural things he'd ever said. He hadn't thought about it before, at least not in those words. Love was for other people; good people with good futures, simple lives, people like Abigail and Albert. Not him. But he did love her, didn't he? That's what he felt when he carried her out of the belly of Lowe's ship, so utterly helpless yet still trying to fight her way free of him. It was there when he stood outside her house, letting his mind revel in a fantasy life he could never have. It was the crushing heartache he felt when he finally saw her again, only to see her married. It warred with him when she took it upon herself to venture into a storm to save her husband's life. He had been so scared that she would get hurt, yet fiercely proud of her selfless bravery. It washed over him, painful and exhilarating, when she smiled and laughed next to him, the sun shining down on her upturned face. It was in the brush of their hands and the way he could tell exactly what she was thinking from a single look. It was elemental, as natural and necessary as oxygen.

Albert's face brightened and he nodded happily. "Good, good." He pulled off his glasses, rubbing them clean with an old handkerchief. "I believe," he replaced the glasses, "there are a number of carpentry jobs in the house. Just little things that need tending. I'm not very handy, I'm sure you know. Abigail can show you what needs to be done."

Just like that, he went about his business, humming as he gathered his notes and books, leaving Billy still on one knee, flummoxed.

"The side door," Albert gestured blindly over his shoulder, head still buried in his work, "will take you the back door of the cabin."

Billy knew this. He helped build the house, including the private pathway between the two buildings. It was there to make it easier for the minister to get to and from the chapel.

He didn't have to be told twice. He was out the door so quickly, he missed Albert's quiet chuckle.

* * *

That bloody trunk weighed a bloody ton. It might have weighed less if she hadn't packed the better part of a library, but she hadn't been able to part with any of them. It was the only heavy packing item she'd allowed herself when she left Philadelphia. Dragging it from the bedroom to the sitting room had been a Herculean effort.

Abigail ran her thumb down the spine of another familiar volume, sighed contentedly, and placed it next to the others. The shelves were now almost full, and the trunk nearly empty.

It was raining again. The smell of wet earth filtered into the little home and Abigail found that for the first time in her life, she liked the rain. She didn't have an elaborate coiffure or expensive dress and shoes to worry about, nor any stressful luncheons or teas at which her appearance would make or break her reputation. She could appreciate it for what it was: beautiful and life-giving. The gray sky brought out the vibrant greens of the grass and leaves. The crops would grow and the earth would soften for the men working it. The river and streams would swell, maybe even bring more fish. Rain was a miracle.

The back door opened and heavy boot falls echoed from the kitchen, mingled with the heavy patter of rain. "Did you forget something?" she called as she shelved another book.

"Not exactly," Billy's voice rumbled in response. Abigail dropped the book she'd fished from the trunk and squeaked in surprise. Billy was filling the door frame between the kitchen and sitting room. He rushed forward and crouched at the trunk to retrieve what she dropped. Abigail sucked in a breath; even on one knee, when he lifted his head and held out the book to her, he was only barely shorter than her. At this angle, she could look down into his eyes. He wiped moisture from his face with his free hand and dried it on his shirt. Little rivulets of water dripped down the corded muscle of his neck, disappearing beneath the open collar of his rough shirt. She wanted to know where it went. Their fingers brushed on the spine of the book. "The reverend said you have a few things that need fixing." There was a rasp to his voice that sent liquid warmth pooling between her legs, a sensation that had plagued her since their last encounter.

He was looking up at her expectantly. He said something, something about… work? Did they need something done to the cabin? His expression shifted from wide-eyed caution into something almost playful. He slid the book onto a shelf, letting his knuckles brush against the fabric at her hip. Her breaths were coming short and shallow already. His hands found her waist, holding her as gently as if she was a piece of fine porcelain. Some of the remaining moisture on his hands was seeping into her dress and she didn't care.

"I have no idea how to do this," Abigail said.

Only the briefest flash of confusion lit his eyes, before the corners of Billy's full lips curved up. "Me neither."

Abigail let out a relieved chuckle. "Really?"

"Not a clue." Billy shrugged. "I did a lot of things as a pirate, but this wasn't one of them."

It was hard to concentrate this close to him, with his big hands splayed out around her waist, rubbing unconscious circles with his thumbs. Candlelight reflected in the rain water still clinging to the golden hairs on his forearms, casting shadows and highlights there that were downright hypnotic.

"I guess we'll have to figure it out as we go."

Billy nodded. "That works for me." His hands dropped lower to encircle her hips. "I still feel terrible about how I treated you."

Her heart sank. She didn't know how many different ways to tell him that not only had he not hurt her - well, it hurt a little at first, if she was being honest with herself - but he'd finally given her something she'd wanted, without fully understanding precisely what she wanted, for years. "Billy, it wasn't-"

"It can be better." His fingers gripped her tighter. His eyes slid around the sitting room, looking for help or an answer that wasn't there. His brow furrowed. "There's not actually anything broken in here, is there?" Abigail shook her head. "Fantastic."

He dropped her hips and found her ankle, which she now realized was impossibly small. Honestly, who had ankles this small? Should they be this small? Were other women's ankles this small? She hadn't the occasion to know. His fingers traced up her calf, then, horribly, left to find the hem of her skirt. He pushed it up to her knee and found and untied her garter with a familiar deftness, discarding the ribbon on the floor. The sight of the item right there, next to the bookshelves in the sitting room, was arresting: that's not at all where that article of clothing was supposed to be. The stocking followed.

Billy moved to the other leg, removing and dropping the other stocking as quickly and quietly as he had the first. He belatedly noticed her lack of shoes, frowning at the floor.

"Where are you shoes?" "What are you doing?"

They spoke over each other then abruptly stopped. He lost interest in why she hadn't been wearing any shoes, and his mouth quirked in a small, teasing smile. His fingertips ghosted up the side of her leg and back down to her calf, sending gooseflesh rippling all the way to her neck. The warm pulsing at her sex demanded attention, but from this angle, she wasn't quite sure what there was to be done about it.

He brushed his lips along the bare skin of her leg, pushing up her skirts further as he went. The scruff of his beard was both tickling and rough, leaving sparks of lightning in its wake. He gathered her skirts higher, until she was exposed, still trailing his lips and tongue along her inner thigh. She stumbled over a protest, but she wasn't quite sure she wanted him to stop. He spared a hand to press his fingertips to her lips, silencing her. They stayed there even though she stopped trying to speak. She closed her lips around the calloused pads of his fore and middle fingers. Wanting to kiss him there must be strange, but she couldn't stop herself. She wanted to know what it was like to kiss him everywhere, as he was doing to her.

Her anxiety mounted in time with her desire. She was so exposed and he was so close. He groaned into her when she scraped her teeth over his fingertips, and he finally pressed a gentle, cautious kiss to her sex. Abigail sucked in a short breath and froze, her hands gripping the wooden shelf at her back. This was beyond her, so wildly out of step with anything she'd ever heard of, and if he stopped now she might scream.

He kissed her again, this time lingering, tasting her. Her stomach was flipping in erratic circles and she was keenly aware of the moisture gathering where his lips were moving against her. Billy's tongue delved between her wet folds and a shudder rocked her entire body. He finally let his hand fall from her mouth, trailing down her neck, lingering over her breasts, then lower until she was dimly aware of him hooking her leg onto his shoulder.

She was white-knuckling the shelves at her back. She knew Billy wouldn't let her fall, but the things he was doing with his mouth was making her feel like she might simultaneously melt and burst into flames. God only knew what might happen if she let go.

Any reservations he might have had were gone. He laved and sucked with an uninhibited vigor that was pushing her faster and faster toward a precipice she'd hadn't crossed before. His tongue found the sensitive nub that only she had known about until very recently and her hips jerked in response.

Her breath was coming short and shallow and she found she could hardly keep her eyes open against the spinning sensation that threatened to overwhelm her. She finally ventured a look down and, as if sensing her, Billy paused long enough to turn his eyes up to her. Slowly, deliberately, he closed his lips over her sex and slid his tongue inside her.

It was her undoing. She dissolved against the waves of sensation. She might have even cried out, but she was only aware of the consuming, pulsing eruption that originated from him. He kept at it, slowly easing off as the tidal wave receded and she was left swollen and sensitive, her internal muscles still throbbing like an echo.

That was different.

An hour and two more repeats of that experience later, Abigail nestled herself into the crook of Billy's shoulder. He was lazily running his fingers through her hair while she explored the hard planes and dips on his torso. He had much more hair than she expected, though given the state of his beard when she first arrived at Camp Jackson, it shouldn't have surprised her. It was light and golden, dusted from the top of his chest all the way down below. She colored and tucked her head to hide her blush. After everything they had just done, feeling shy was downright silly, but she felt it nonetheless.

"I told you." She could feel his voice rumbling beneath her cheek.

"What?"

"It could be better."

Abigail shifted so she could look up at him, her hand still idly tracing patterns on his bare skin. Her cheeks were pulling up in a shy smile. "Yes, you did."

His brow knitted in concern and the hand laced in her hair stopped moving. "It was better, wasn't it?"

She giggled and nodded. "Yes." He was so warm and solid beneath her. She felt like a noodle that had been left in a pot too long. "But," she bit back another smile at his immediate frown, "I still enjoyed myself by the lake."

His arm tightened around her and he pressed a kiss to her forehead. They couldn't stay like this forever. They couldn't even stay like this for the rest of the afternoon, not before someone would notice Billy's absence, or Albert might want to return to his own home. She supposed that at some point the three of them would all be in a room together, but for right now this moment was all their own.

At some point, the rain had stopped pattering on the roof. The smell of wet earth mingled with the fading scent of sweat. It was the most comfortable she'd ever felt in this bed.

"Do you think, maybe you could come back tomorrow?"

He held her gaze, steady, warming at the edges. "I intend to come back as long as you'll have me."

Abigail shifted in his arm to rest more fully against him. The heat radiating from his skin made the cool air at her back almost unnoticeable. "How long is your sentence?"

"About nine years left." Billy relaxed and chuckled.

"Will you stay here?"

"I haven't thought that far ahead in a very long time."

They were both too sated to properly brood, but there were dozens of unspoken questions lingering between them. Abigail still longed to know how he'd come to this place, wearing his darkness like a shroud. She knew he would tell her when he was ready, but it still pained her to think of him bearing it alone. His manner had improved considerably since she first arrived at Jackson. Sometimes he was almost the same man she'd known on the Siren, optimistic and devoted to his ideals, to his brothers. Almost. Maybe, if they were very lucky, they could keep what they had and he might start to hope for good things again.

* * *

"And then," Gertie stirred a spoonful of sugar into her tea without a few light clinks, "she tells me we're completely out of silver polish!" She and Clarissa shared a long-suffering scoff. Abigail nodded and smiled along. "Apparently we're so far removed from the real world we're expected to eat on dirty silverware."

Afternoon tea was painful, but tomorrow would be Sunday. Abigail took a large amount of pride in fully shirking a lifetime of upbringing and embracing people and a lifestyle her peers would have her strung up for. However, that lifetime of training taught her a number of valuable lessons that even someone as clever as Lizzie didn't know. Lizzie had plenty of experience on the outskirts of the peerage, but never a seat among them. She knew how to avoid ladies like Clarissa and Gertie, to make herself as invisible and unoffensive as possible, but not how to win them over, and certainly not what they could offer her.

Clarissa and Gertie knew - and loved to share - every detail of their husbands' plans for the land and people here. Clarissa droned on about the mind-numbing legal and financial record keeping she was now responsible for, given the impracticality of hauling a secretary or notary this deep into the "bush."

She and Albert had yet to talk in detail about how they could help anyone at Camp Jackson, but years spent in dining rooms listening to adults all trying to out-maneuver each other taught her there was no such thing as bad information. If she listened carefully, she would eventually learn something worthwhile from these awful women.

"Perhaps you could have packed extra silver polish inside the great clocks." Abigail wasn't sure what compelled her to say it. It was something Billy would find hilarious. She hid her face behind a sip of tea, but she couldn't miss the way Gertie blanched at her.

Clarissa's eyes danced merrily between the two women and she let out a light chuckle. The tension left Abigail's body and Gertie forced out a brittle laugh of her own.

"I suppose it must seem excessive after all you've had to give up," Gertie said.

Every interaction she had with Mrs. Rowling was riddled with velvet daggers. Lady Kent wasn't much better, but she seemed to have less interest in establishing her superiority over Abigail. There was no need.

Abigail searched for a retort. She'd happily remind Gertie that she'd chosen to marry a reverend and live a more simple life. Not that she'd had much of a choice. Auba saved her from an awkward, stilted attempt at countering Gertie's dig. She appeared silently at Abigail's shoulder with a kettle of hot water to refresh her tea. They shared a warm smile before Auba averted her eyes and moved on to serve Gertie. The Kents liked to serve from the lowest up. Clarissa once explained that it helped her feel like she was leading by example. According to Auba and Mimba, that did not extend to the slaves.

"Auba," Clarissa spoke with a ringing clarity, "please bring me the June book and check on Harrison. We both know how the boy likes to wander and I would like the dining room presentable. For once." She waited for Auba to collect the tea service tray and leave before offering them an apologetic smile. "I know it's terribly rude of me to start work while I have guests, but everything here has become so informal. Necessity dictates that we make the most of what we have to work with, wouldn't you agree, Abigail?"

Billy's face flashed in Abigail's mind, flushed, intense, and so real a sweat broke out on her palms. "Indeed." She coughed to clear her throat.

A large leather journal appeared on the side table, along with a quill and ink pot. Auba backed out of the room as silent as a whisper. Clarissa opened the journal and traced her pristine fingers over the pages and pages of information. "Honestly, ladies, I am thankful every day that I paid close attention to the way my mother managed a household. This," she gestured with her pen across the almost-full page, "alone is the work of two accountants and a foreman, and it's all fallen to me!"

"You have truly risen to the occasion," Gertie toasted her. She turned her attention to Abigail. "Did you know she is singlehandedly managing every slave in the camp?"

No, Abigail did not know that. How interesting. Again, it was information she didn't quite know what to do with, but it was undoubtedly important.

A soft cough from the doorway drew their gazes. "Ma'am," Auba curtsied, "Little Harrison was not in the dining room. If you'll permit me, I'll check the-"

"Do." Clarissa didn't look up as she traced perfectly-formed notes into the log. "As this is the third time this has happened, I will expect both of you at the post before supper. The foreman will see to it."

A chill ran down Abigail's spine. "The post?" Her voice cracked on the question.

Clarissa looked up from her notes, then offered another simpering feigned apologetic smile. "I know it's terribly uncouth, but we're all quite intimate here. It's honestly like training dogs. These people will try to get a free pass at every turn and nothing would ever get done without proper discipline."

It was of continuous amazement to Abigail that someone so beautiful, so refined, so educated, could be so horrendous. Clarissa had a face that would have inspired Botticelli. She was kind to her children, doted on her husband. She continuously extended her hand to Abigail in what passed for friendship to her and had absolutely no qualms doling out brutal physical punishment to human beings in her service.

She shot a look to Auba, who had gone ashen and backed out of the room with a mumbled "Yes, Ma'am." She tried to focus on her tea, but that was a mistake. She wanted to smash the cup into Clarissa's perfect, pale face.

"Poor thing," Gertie patted her hand, "she doesn't have to handle these little ugly every day realities the way we do."

Abigail twitched, almost spilling her tea. The blood ran in her ears, drowning out the natural sound of the quiet sitting room. She set her cup and saucer aside and stood, straightening her skirts. "My apologies ladies, I just remembered I promised to help Albert with his sermon this afternoon."

"Don't think too harshly of me, Abigail." Clarissa's eyes sparkled, but there was nothing deeper than that. "I do look forward to the reverend's sermons."

I'll give you something to look forward to.

She stomped all the way back to their cabin. She hadn't been this single-minded and agitated since the night she and Billy had nearly made love on the cabin floor. Now, though, her agitation was directed outward. The idea of Auba and that little boy being lashed for any reason was unbearable. She poured over all the possibilities: she could intervene, but to what end? She had no authority over people considered property. Captain Jacobs wouldn't care and neither would the foreman.

Her only hope was if Albert could convince them, as the camp's minister, that this was un-Christian and unnecessary. She would just have to convince Albert, and help him craft the perfect argument. She was so busy going over all the important points they'd need to discuss, muttering to herself, she didn't hear the quiet voices from inside the cabin, or notice the way the shutters had been pulled closed.

She pushed through the door, opened her mouth to call for Albert, then yelped in surprise and clapped her hand over her open mouth. Albert and Ned shoved away from each other like there was a fire between them. Neither were wearing jackets. They had been standing together in the sitting room, embracing each other. Albert's hair was mussed and, if she wasn't mistaken, his lips were swollen and pink. His face flamed and his visibly scrambled for an answer. Ned coughed and straightened his tie. When neither Albert nor Abigail moved, picked up his jacket off the table. "I should be off. Lovely to see you, Mrs. Locke." He bent at the waist in a short bow. Abigail managed to step aside from the door so he could leave, but she didn't get far.

They stared at each other in taut silence until Albert made to shuffle to the bedroom. "I am feeling unwell. Perhaps, I should go to bed." The sun was still up.

"Stop." She strode fully into the room and put a hand on his arm, preventing his escape. "Will you really not talk to me about this?"

Puzzle pieces began to fit together in her mind, from his reticence at her contact to his happiness with her relationship with Billy. Lizzie and Billy had both tried to tell her, hadn't they? That some men simply don't want the touch of a woman. Albert spent more time with Ned than anyone else, and Ned had been the one to join Billy in her rescue. He'd been beside himself over Albert's illness.

Albert's head dipped low. "I don't know how you can bear to look at me," he whispered.

She stepped in front of him, blocking his path and forcing her way into his sight. "Why would I not be able to look at you? After all you've forgiven me-"

"This is different!" He recoiled from her, his dark eyes wide. "This is different and you know it."

"Is this what you've been so upset about? Albert, I don't care. I love you. I want you to be happy as much as you want me to be happy." It was a lot to take in, to be sure, but Abigail had weathered worse than this. If this was Albert's biggest crime, she considered herself a lucky woman.

He pulled away and ran a hand through his hair, making it more messy than it already was. "This is an abomination. It will not continue."

It was a marvel that someone so progressive in his worldview could be so harsh with himself. He freely allowed her to carry on a relationship outside of the marriage, but would not allow himself the same freedom. She reached for him again but he jerked out of her grasp. His cheeks were wet. He trudged into the bedroom and sat slumped on the edge of the bed, his face in his hands.

Abigail followed him and knelt at his feet. She took his hands and pressed a kiss against his knuckles.

"Is this not the soul of depravity?" He looked so lost. Every insecurity he harbored, every fear, was now on the surface like an open wound. How long had he felt so broken in his heart?

"To be completely honest with you, I have never truly understood the concept." She shifted on her knees to rest more comfortably against his legs. "I don't think God would make people just to send them to Hell."

He didn't respond for a long time, until his hands finally tightened around hers. "What a pair we make." He offered a sad smile and let her lean up to kiss his cheek.

"You're a good person." She stood, still clasping his hands. "I know it's a lot right now, but I need your assistance with something this evening, otherwise I wouldn't ask. I think you can help some people. Will you?"

For a moment, she was afraid he'd say no. He was tired, all the stress of trying to force himself to be something he wasn't was finally out in the open. His shrill dedication to his faith must have been exhausting and she was sorry she hadn't understood it until now. She'd been too busy worrying over herself and her own unhappiness to see beyond the surface of his controlling behavior and rigidity.

But he stood, swallowed and took on a determined set to his soft features. "What do we need to do?"

* * *

Jacobs watched the Locke couple resolutely marching to the Kent estate. It wasn't tea time and they weren't dressed appropriately for supper, not that either of them dressed finely. They were putting their noses into something and stirring up more trouble, of that he had no doubt.

As if his day needed more trouble. His scouts had just escorted a cadre of French soldiers, with a pair of Chickasaw warriors, into his tent. This was surely in response to the missing fur traders and not at all what he needed. It did not bode well that they were willing to send six armed men and two warriors into British territory to investigate.

He ambled back to his tent. He'd made them wait a sufficient time for him. He breezed inside, past the crush of Frenchmen. The Chickasaw were made to wait outside.

"Gentlemen," he swept behind his desk, arching a dark brow at the rank of their leader, "welcome to Camp Jackson. How may we be of assistance?"

Their captain's lip curled. "You know why we are here. I want to know what happened to my cousin."

Jacobs flicked his eyes up and down the other man. They were all dirty and tired. God only knew how long they'd been searching the woods. "LeBlanc, I presume?"

"Oui."

Captain LeBlanc was not impressed. Like a good seasoned soldier, he could smell the lies a mile away. "I will tell you gentlemen exactly what was in my report: I have no idea. My executive officer encountered both men while on an emergency supply run to the fort, and did not see them again after. These mountains are a big place and fur trading is dangerous business."

"What about the woman? Or the other man? I saw a convict who shared his impressive height. What do they say?"

Fuck. This what he'd been afraid of. Someone had seen them. They probably saw everything.

"I'm afraid I only know what was reported to me. However, I trust my executive officer and wouldn't put it past some of the locals to shill out falsehoods in exchange for coin or beads or whatever it is these people want."

LeBlanc's hand rested on the butt of his pistol. "What a strange tale to fabricate. The man who told me is one of our most trusted trackers. He came to me immediately with news of my cousin's murder. Perhaps you would permit me to talk to some of your residents? The woman, she is the reverend's wife, is she not? Hows strange for her to be in the woods with a convict without your knowledge. In a blizzard, no less, mon dieu."

"No." This could rapidly get out of hand. All six pairs of eyes widened in surprise. "As I am responsible for the welfare of everyone in this camp, I cannot permit a troop of foreign soldiers to interrogate any of my residents, even if they are convicts." And troublemakers. "If you have further questions, you can submit them to my higher command at the fort."

"This is not over, Captain."

"I imagine it's not. Good day, gentlemen."

They left without argument, if a few muttered French curses. Only when their party was escorted off the camp did Jacobs finally sink into his chair. He deflated. Even his palms were sweating. He called for his clerk, a young private who made a poor secret of his chronic drunkenness. His pasty cheeks were bright red. Still feeling last night's indiscretions, most likely.

"Sir?"

"Tell the sergeant of the guard to double the rotations, and I want a four-man patrol circling the camp's perimeter at all times."

"Aye, Sir." He shifted from one foot to the other. "Is this about Mr. Kanuna?"

Oh, for fuck's sake. He tossed his pen to his desk. "What? What now?"

The private's eyes shot up. "Well, he's gone, Sir. He took a few of his things and made off into the woods not an hour ago."

A muscle jumped painfully in his jaw. His teeth hurt from clenching them so hard and so often. He closed his eyes and silently counted to three before responding. "No. Let him go. He was never a prisoner, anyway. I'll brief the sergeant of the guard at the next change-over."

Kanuna had been an unwilling guest of Camp Jackson for so long, most of the men forgot he'd originally been considered a prisoner. It was of no real matter to Jacobs or the British government. One less mouth to feed. But he'd been able to leave for the better part of a year now. Choosing to walk away the moment a troop of French and Chickasaw raiders crossed his path was telling. What had been communicated between those men that prompted Kanuna to finally surrender his claim to this land? With that in mind, he began scrawling out an emergency missive to the fort.

They would need more men.


	12. Chapter 12

Shucking corn was definitely a corner of Purgatory. Her fingers ached and burned with raw spots and cuts. She sat on an overturned bucket between Hannah and Lizzie. What had started as a bright early morning over this communal task had faded into an unbearably hot late afternoon, sweating and grumbling over their hard work.

She wondered for the twentieth time what had become of Kanuna. She thought they had become friends and it gnawed at her that he could leave without so much as a farewell. It didn't sit right in her gut, like so many other things at this camp.

At least they let the convicts work under tents or tree shade. Her eyes drifted out to the fields where the slaves were working even harder. The foreman and chosen convicts were patrolling with lashes, or even a firm boot to the ribs for any who dared collapse in the heat. She recalled her first days at Camp Jackson, stupidly hauling water up and down the lines despite her relative weakness. Her instincts hadn't changed. When was the last time any of those men had water? She couldn't even see all the children.

There were Marines milling around, but would it be so bad if she and a few of the other women brought water to the slaves? It wouldn't take very long and might even help them finish sooner. Maybe-

"Don't look," Lizzie said softly so only Abigail could hear her. Abigail stared at her, stunned. "You can't do anything for them. You're just gonna eat yourself up over it."

Abigail tried to focus on the corn cob in her hand, but she couldn't get her fingers to cooperate. "What if I could do something?"

There was a long stretch of silence until Abigail looked up and saw Lizzie staring at her, the barest hint of a smile tugging at her lips, looking as soft as Abigail had ever seen her. "When you first got here, I thought it was all an act; you being the perfect little minister's wife. No one could possibly be that good without dark secrets. Yet here you are, turning yourself inside out over something you will never fix."

"I'm not that good." Visions of her last lakeside visit with Billy flashed hot and deliciously real. "I've hardly done anything worthwhile since coming here. After everything with Charles Town settled, I swore I wouldn't waste another day, then let myself sit on a cushion in a distant cousin's house reading while the world kept going. I didn't do anything. I met Albert and thought it would finally happen, but all I've really cared about is my own happiness."

"Now, that's just not true," Hannah chimed in, shaking her head. "We all know how you ran off in that storm to get your husband medicine-"

"Which could have gotten other people killed trying to rescue me. It was reckless."

"-and you stopped that awful Kent woman from whipping that little boy, at least once. Anyone who's been lashed knows that any time you aren't getting lashed is a good day." Hannah's smile turned into a snaggle-toothed grin.

Lizzie pushed her basket in front of Abigail so they could consolidate their work. "What's the matter, you a Catholic? Every time you start enjoying yourself you gotta take a whipping and pray for forgiveness?" There was teasing in her tone, but none of the bite her words used to carry. "If you spent less time fretting, you might come up with something useful."

Abigail's eyes traveled involuntarily to where they always traveled: Billy was hefting full baskets into a wagon with a small team of convicts. The excess would be split between drying for feed and replanting. Watching that man work was enough to send her insides spinning, all other looming catastrophes be damned. It _was_ a distraction, the trouble was she had no footing on this territory. When one set about to undermine the British government, how much time did one dedicate to such a venture? How much time could one dedicate to one's own pleasures? It stood to reason that Billy would know, but every time she broached the subject he deftly maneuvered into a new topic. Often with his lips. Or his hands. It was maddening.

When her father challenged James McGraw, the retaliation was swift, explosive, and unmistakable. It was heard from the Carolinas to London. It was a rallying cry for pirates and the disenfranchised to rise up as one. When England struck back, her father had swung for his part in the mess. No one argued with a hanging, or an artillery barrage. But she and Albert didn't have artillery or a Spanish war ship. Albert had a Bible and she had her principles and social navigation skills. That hardly amounted to breaking anyone's chains. James _Flint_ 's retaliation had also failed in spectacular fashion.

Hannah was laughing quietly at her. Lizzie followed her gaze and was also watching Billy. Her amused smirk faded into a sad smile before she turned back to her work. She dropped her voice again. "I never… nothing happened. With Will." Abigail's hands stilled on a corn cob, but she didn't dare look Lizzie in the eye. "I saw the way you were making moon eyes at each other. I just said it to get at you."

Abigail coughed and cleared her throat. "I don't know what you're-" A stern look from Lizzie shut her right up.

If she'd had this conversation with anyone else, anywhere else, it would have been disaster. It would have been shocked gasps and clutched pearls. It would have been disdain and disappointment. They would have tittered, " _That poor girl, ruined by pirates and now a convict's whore. What a tragedy_. _This is why you don't send girls to school."_ She saw the judgment and pity in Clarissa and Gertie's faces clear enough and they didn't know the half of it. Gertie would probably have an apoplexy if she knew.

In that moment, Abigail realized how profoundly lucky she was. She wasn't violated by pirates - nearly the opposite, in fact - a thing very few other women who had been in her position could say. She had a husband she loved and who loved her in return. They loved each other so much there was no judgment between them, only support and camaraderie. A lesser man would have put her aside, or worse, killed her. She had Billy, whatever he was to her, her husband in truth if not by law. She even had friends, real friends, for perhaps the first time in her life.

The summer sun shined a little brighter, less punishing and more golden.

"I never expected him to live like a monk. Besides," Abigail's lips formed a secret smile, "I'm the one who showed up here married."

Lizzie did a double take, blanched, then snorted and dissolved into laughter. Hannah joined and together they made such a ruckus, even Billy paused his work to investigate. When they locked eyes, his lips quirked. It was such a small gesture, but Abigail felt it down to her toes. Would there ever come a time when he didn't affect her so?

She hoped not.

"If you ask me, and you haven't, but I'll tell ya anyway," Hannah sobered as they all returned to their work, "you save who you can. Sometimes the only one you can save is yourself."

Abigail turned a cob over in her battered hands, then looked back out to the fields. "What if that's not good enough?"

They fell into silence, shucking - throwing - picking up - shucking again. The papery crinkle and crunch of the husks joined the symphony unique to the colony; orders growled out from the Marines and foreman, birds and insects buzzing, low singing from the convicts and slaves.

A cohort of slaves shuffled by, drawing the attention of all three women. They weren't chained - hard to get efficient work from people in chains - but they all wore those God awful iron collars. Even Abigail's students had to wear them. An escaped slave could only get so far when every man, woman, and child on this continent knew what that collar meant.

"Could always be worse, ladies," Hannah muttered. "Least if we run off, no one's gonna know we was convicts."

"No one would know if… never mind." Lizzie snapped her mouth shut and snatched up another pile of cobs.

"No one would know what?" Abigail asked.

Lizzie shifted on her seat. "It's just that the Marines are so… I don't know if it's stupidity or arrogance, probably both." She had Abigail and Hannah's full attention now, waiting for her to explain. "The sergeant of the guard has a skeleton key. It opens every lock in this camp, including the collars. If they were to get a copy of that key, no one would have to know they escaped or where they came from." When she caught Abigail gaping at her, she huffed and pursed her lips. "What? I've been fucked to within an inch of my life by every noncommissioned officer in this camp, you think I don't know things?"

* * *

Billy's eyes drifted open, lazy and relaxed. It wasn't very long ago that waking up on a sandy shore with cool water lapping at his toes would have sent terror curling up his spine. It might have even sent him scrambling and screaming until he realized he wasn't in danger. Or marooned.

Now it was warm and pleasant. No, pleasant wasn't a good enough word for the way he felt. He felt peace, and hope, an emotion he was no longer very familiar with.

A delicate splashing drew his attention. Abigail was on her back, floating in just her shift, basking in the sunlight. Her dark hair haloed around her now sun bronzed skin. His heart clenched at the sight. She was so innocent in spite of everything. He had to protect her.

That thought brought a bitter laugh to lips. He sat up, ran his hands over his eyes and shook his head. He was the last person who could or should protect her. If she knew the half of what he'd done, but it was no matter; she could never know. He could at least protect her from the horrors of Nassau. He could protect her from her and her husband's well-intended but misguided philanthropic efforts.

He had once agreed with Silver on one very important fact: there was no winning a war against England. Toward the end, even before his betrayal, it had become abundantly clear that their only hope was in establishing a community like the Maroons: a safe haven for pirates and England's other rejects. Unless they happened to know of a safe and functional Maroon colony nearby, neither she nor Albert could win at anything here except making enemies. The worst kind of enemies. It was already eating at her how little she could actually do. She would be heartbroken when she finally realized it.

"Are you going to join me, or are you just going to sit there and brood?" She was still on her back, smiling up at the sky. The little minx.

He did this to her, too. The only thing that kept him from turning himself inside out with shame over the way it had happened the first time was the fact that Abigail Ashe - the little girl he'd pulled from the hold of a pirate ship and who then technically married a minister - was exactly as eager for him as he was for her.

The more he was with her, the more thoroughly convinced he became that Mr. Locke had not, in fact, ever fulfilled his husbandly duties. However, pursuing that line of thought lead nowhere he dared to tread. Some things were best not even thought of, so he buried that idea every time it sprang into his head.

A splash of cool water pulled him from his reverie. Abigail was at the shore's edge, her shift transparent and clinging to her form, barely biting back her laughter. It was impossible to brood with her standing over him like this - as alluring as a siren but twice as pretty because she was so damn happy.

He pulled his knees up and rested his forearms, refusing to be baited. Not until he suckered her into thinking he would remain docile. "I was not brooding," he said with concerted effort to remain impassive and unamused. It was a monumental task, as was not letting himself sink back into lust-induced madness at the sight of her pink nipples against the wet fabric, or that nest of dark curls he could make out lower.

Abigail ran her delicate white toes over the surface of the water, hinting at another kick and splash. "I believe that brooding may be your most natural state."

He had to chuckle at that. It was true enough. Even when he was happy with his crew, he was also weighted with concerns, so much so that he often missed out on the simple pleasures his brothers enjoyed. They always thought him too serious, too hard, and that had been during a time in his life where his concerns were painfully simple. Eat, sleep, keep the rigging orderly, keep the men on their shifts, lead the men in the vanguard, distribute cuts, repeat, repeat, repeat. No wars, no political maneuvering, no long range battle tactics, no moral and ethical quandaries pitting him between winning a war and doing the right thing. No torture. No drowning. No hatred fueling his every move. And yet, he still brooded.

The price of always thinking three steps ahead was perpetual worry about what came three steps ahead, whether that was how to get your next meal or how to deal with the violent despot you put in a position of power.

"See? Brooding." She splashed him again. She stepped closer and kicked more water.

Billy waited until she took one more step, brown eyes dancing with mischief, before springing up. She had only a moment to register her surprise with a squeal before he wrapped her up in his ungainly arms and threw over his shoulder. In two long steps he had her back where he wanted her: tossed into the deep end of the pond.

He followed with a particularly athletic leap creating the biggest splash he could muster, which, if he was inclined to bragging, was pretty damn big. They came up in a tangle of limbs and sputtering laughter. She got a few good splashes in before he pulled her into back his arms. Her effervescent laughter shook through her whole body, breathing life into him.

Billy captured her smiling lips against his own and ran his hands along the softness of her cheeks, into her hair. This much he'd learned recently: he could kiss her forever. The taste of her, the press of her body into his, the way her little hands would land on his shoulders or trace up the back of his neck.

The giggling gave way to heavy breathing as the air shifted between them. It took him a moment to realize she had turned them and was slowly pulling him back toward the shore. He was following her like a starving man to a feast. In a few more steps she was on her back and he was between her legs, settling exactly where his body demanded to be. Their tongues clashed in a now familiar dance. With a little nip on her bottom lip, he had her hips bucking against him.

She made a soft mewling noise, which nearly pushed him over the edge. At some point, it wasn't supposed to be this wild need anymore, wasn't it? At some point it should get easier to slow down, take his time, savor. Today was not that day. Like the first time, the urgency drove both of them.

He could collect himself. He was a man, dammit, not a green boy with his first scullery maid. Abigail deserved more. She certainly deserved more than the risk he had repeatedly put her in. That thought sobered him enough to still and slow down.

"I told you: we need to take precautions." He broke off the kiss with a shallow breath, his voice hoarse even to his own ears. "This time we need to…" he trailed off at the look on her face.

Something flitted across her expression, a little wistful, a little cautious, but she didn't speak. Her fingers traced a pattern on his chest and she chewed her lip, as she always did when she had something to say but wasn't sure if she should say it. It was an adorable tell.

"Say it."

"It's just… would it be so bad?"

Billy felt his chest constrict, but he didn't know where to even begin answering that question. "Abigail," he took her hand and kissed the back of her knuckles, "you would never be able to set foot anywhere in this colony without everyone knowing your tall blond children were not fathered by Albert."

Abigail pushed herself up on one elbow. "So? The only people here I care about happen to care enough about me to not pass judgments."

"That's because all your real friends here are convicts."

She scowled at him. "That's not true! Besides, your sentence is up in eight years. If it's that bad, we can simply move to a new colony. Maybe by then there will be somewhere further west for us to go."

"We?" Billy arched a brow at her. "All of us? You, me, Albert, and Swann, I presume?"

"Don't forget the brood of tall blond children." She slid out from under him and sat up on her knees. "I'm being serious, Billy. I don't think it's mad."

Billy sat back on his heels. What she was saying, despite her insistence otherwise, was utter madness. No one would ever believe he hadn't sired the as-yet-unborn children and even the most far reaching colony on the continent wouldn't cotton to an entire clan living in about seven levels of sin. They'd have better luck in Nassau for that sort of thing, which he would consider if he thought he'd last a week back before being recognized. "And how would you explain it to the nice frontiersmen we encounter? I'm your cousin and your children took after my side of the family?"

"No," Abigail shook her head. _Oh God, she's thought this through_. "Albert and Ned would be my bachelor cousins. We all have a similar coloring, similar stature. No one would question it."

"And that would make me…?"

"My husband."

Some part of him had known she'd been thinking this. He'd thought it often enough, before shutting it out and distracting himself, storing it safely next to his niggling suspicion that she wasn't truly married to Albert. The most dangerous part of all this was how much sense she was making. If he let himself, he could believe her. He wanted to believe her. He wanted to lose himself in blind, unfettered hope.

Abigail's face crumpled with amusement. She reached forward to stroke his cheek, biting her own to keep her smile contained. "Billy? Are you alright? You look like you might be having a stroke."

A fly buzzed around his ear, enough of a distraction to pull him from his trance.

"You don't have to be my husband." Abigail dropped her hands to her lap.

"It's not…" Billy shook his head and counted to three. "I don't know what's going to happen and I don't-"

"You don't like thinking about the future." Abigail nodded once. "You don't have to. I can think about it enough for the both of us, alright?"

Somehow he didn't think that would last very long, but that was a running theme in his life. "Alright, you do that and I'm gonna…" He threaded his hand into the hair at the nape of her neck and pulled her in for another kiss.

* * *

"The jewels are good but…" Marcus crinkled his nose and rubbed his chin.

"But what?" Billy stopped moving through the motions on the work line to stand to his full height, hands on his hips. This posture always worked with his brothers. Didn't seem as effective with Marcus, who paid him no more than a disinterested shrug.

"Eventually," Marcus began after careful consideration, "the Marines will increase their patrols and it will be harder for the small groups to escape. Or the commandant will begin executing anyone he thinks is insubordinate as a way to discourage more escapes. This method is only a stop-gap, Mr. James. If I am to help as many people as possible, we will need something more efficient."

Efficient. He wasn't wrong, except that he was. What he was proposing was fundamentally impossible. Even if - and that was a big _if_ \- they were to mount some kind of mass exodus, the Marines and landowners had the law, money, and endless power on their sides. They had records of every convict and slave present. Every white man from here to New York and London itself would join forces to put down a perceived rebellion against the empire.

He found himself replying, "The best you can do is find a place you can protect, build a wall, save who you can."

There was no way on God's Earth they had such a place. Billy, of course, knew of one; one where he'd be arrested on sight and summarily tortured until Madi felt she had exacted some small degree of justice after what he did to her. He wouldn't fight her on that.

"That is the idea." Marcus shoved his pickax into the dirt.

Billy tightened his grip on his own shovel. His sweat-soaked palms matched the rest of him, struggling with the labor in the heat of the southern sun. Of course they had their own safe haven. He was so stupid, so shortsighted when the truth wasn't what he wanted it to be. Where else was Marcus sending all these people? They probably had their own secret enclaves all up and down the continent, or at least such varied routes that the escapees never went the same direction twice when they left the camp. If there was an accessible Maroon colony, then there may be a tangible solution after all. It was a solution that would be hard, bloody, nearly impossible, but not completely impossible. Abigail could never find out about this.

"I'm not going to ask, because I don't want to know." Billy tossed a shovelful of debris out of the way. "I'll keep giving you jewels for the escapees, but that's it. I don't want to be involved in whatever you're cooking up."

"We don't actually need your help."

* * *

"We need his help."

Abigail crossed her arms and glared at Ned. Ned of all people. She sat on one of the sturdy wooden chairs in their front room, surrounded by Albert, Ned, and Marcus. Candlelight flickered on the wood walls and shuttered windows.

Ned dropped to one knee in front of her and took her hand in his. "The men follow him. I know he was a pirate and I know he was an officer. He has the ear of almost every convict in Jackson. Marcus," Ned nodded to the man over his shoulder, "has the ear of the slaves. If we are to unify, we need Will."

Abigail sought Albert for support, but got only a tiny head shake.

"No. He doesn't want anything to do with this."

"So you've spoken to him about it?" Ned brightened with hope.

"Not really, he changes the subject every time I try. I know he wants nothing to do with any of this. I will not ask it of him."

Ned closed his eyes and paused before asking, "Why?"

"Because it's unfair!" Abigail's voice rose and her hands flew out in frustration. "If I ask it of him, he will do it. I will not be party to manipulating him."

The men shared a look in the small cabin, each poorly masking their exasperation. Ned rose and began to speak, but Albert stilled him with a hand on his arm.

"Perhaps he'll be inclined to intervene if I tell him you've already been working with Lizzie, Auba, and Mimba on getting what we need." Albert found his voice.

Abigail gasped like she'd been struck. "You would run to him and tattle on me? And what? Is he supposed to discipline me? We are supposed to be partners in this, Albert, and you would dare-"

"Now is the time!" Albert practically shouted. She'd rarely seen him like this, a bit red around the gills and inflamed. "You have said yourself that this situation is untenable. We have the people, we have the means, we have a plan. He is our key to organizing the convicts."

Tears welled in her eyes and a lump formed in her throat. She searched each man's face, but found only pity and that barely restrained frustration. She knew damn well Billy could organize whatever he wanted to. It was a tragedy that even in disguise, his history unknown to the men in this room, he still couldn't hide what he was. The convicts did follow him. Half the Marines in the camp followed him. But they didn't _know_. Even Abigail didn't know the full truth of what happened in Nassau. Whatever it was, it was bad enough to send him to the bottle and allow himself to be living as a convict in the Carolinas. It was bad enough to render him a shadow of the man she first met.

They didn't know what they were asking her to ask of Billy.

Abigail stood and went to Albert, pleading with him directly. "Please, please don't make me do this. We can find another way. Lizzie leads the women, and these men can be swayed."

Marcus sighed. "He's already on his way."

The betrayal struck like a blade. She took a step away from Albert, who could no longer look her in the eye. "You sent for him? I truly have no say in this?"

"Abigail," Albert held his hands out in a plaintive gesture, "you don't have to say anything, we will speak to him."

"You're damn right I don't!" Everyone was silent, staring at her. Apparently none of them expected her to take their request this badly. She schooled her voice back under her control. "You do whatever you want. I will not be part of this."

She whirled out of the room and left by the back door before any of them could speak.

* * *

Billy rinsed his hands in the chilled water bucket outside the barracks tent. Swann had passed word through the foreman that the Locke house had a leaky roof. The sun was beginning to set, but luckily for all parties, Captain Jacobs preferred to have convicts working on extraneous tasks after the day's farming and land clearing was already complete.

It was less sleep all around and that suited Billy just fine.

He patted his hands then his face, wondering what sort of meeting this would be. The summons could have come from Abigail, though she'd never asked Swann to do that before.

"Convict." Cpl. Howland stood behind him, looking smug. It was his usual facial expression, though Billy couldn't figure out why. He'd beaten the man bloody and as far as he knew, Howland lost every dice and card game he ever played.

"Corporal."

Howland was a big man, but Billy was still bigger. Howland puffed his chest out and widened his stance. Two more Marines flanked Howland. One held manacles.

"You're to report to the brig." Howland spat a wad of tobacco on the ground at Billy's feet. "You can walk there like a man or I can put you in chains."

Billy let his eyes flicker between the Marines and the others milling around the camp. He did a mental checklist of where each patrol should be right now, each sentry post, how many Marines were standing by on liberty. He could run. He had his emergency bag ready. He kept it hidden in the woods. He could grab it and run until the Marines stopped chasing him. They wouldn't chase him very far. They'd need to report to Jacobs, get their own supplies, then mount a search. By then he'd be long gone.

He didn't consider what they wanted to arrest him for. It didn't matter, did it? Maybe they knew about his affair with the minister's wife. Maybe a Billy Bones likeness had made its way to the camp. Maybe he looked at Lady Kent the wrong way. He didn't really care. Arrested was arrested.

If he ran, his piracy pardon would be rendered useless, but that was fixable.

What wasn't fixable was what he'd be leaving behind: Abigail. He would never see her again if he ran. There would be no way to reach her without putting her in danger.

The Marine with the manacles shifted his weight and Howland took on a predatory gleam. "Make up your mind, James, I'd love to put you in these and march you through camp like the criminal you are."

Billy cleared his throat. "That won't be necessary."

He let the Marines lead him to the brig, where they left him to stew overnight.

When dawn broke, he didn't know if he would be facing a lash, a noose, or a stern lecture. He didn't sleep that night.


	13. Chapter 13

Chains were a familiar weight on Billy's wrists and ankles, though it felt a little excessive in his current state. His chains were looped through a ring on the wall over his head and another ring in the floor between his feet, inside one of two cells in the camp's brig. He couldn't even stand up.

He let his head rock back against the wooden wall of the structure. An iron gate separated the cell from a narrow outer hall, just wide enough for a guard or two and a narrow bench along the front wall.

They still hadn't told him what he was in for, but given the overkill of his confinement, Billy could guess. He tried to focus on possible outcomes for this scenario and his available options, but his mind betrayed him over and over again. He kept circling back to Abigail. He would never get ahead of this problem if he couldn't concentrate on the problem.

The current guard was a skinny, freckled soldier, one of reinforcements sent from the fort. Private Chisenhall, if Billy wasn't mistaken. He had little to recommend himself and seemed content to follow. He was the sort of man Billy would never have assigned a difficult task, but could generally be trusted to simply do whatever he was told. As such, he hadn't spoken since being told to watch the prisoner and had done nothing more engaging than swatting at a fly in the past three hours.

It had to be nearly 10 o'clock. A single torch burned near the door leaving most of Billy's cell in darkness. He could see a small square of night sky through the tiny window over the guard's bench. That was better than some cells he'd been in.

Chisenhall roused himself when the door scraped open. Captain Jacobs stepped in from the darkness outside, swept off his cover, and responded to Chisenhall's poorly-executed report with a grunt and hand wave. He wanted to be alone with the prisoner.

He settled himself onto the bench and leaned back against the wall. He ran a hand through the chunk of hair that had come loose from its ties and sighed the familiar long suffering sigh of leadership. "You know why you're here?"

Billy didn't bother answering him. If it wasn't because they'd discovered Billy's true identity, there was no sense in incriminating himself.

"Of course you do," Jacobs went on. He tossed a piece of folded parchment through the bars, just within Billy's shackled reach. "Go on, open it."

As Billy expected, he saw a rendering of his own face staring back at him. _William "Billy Bones" Manderly: piracy, insurrection, sedition, murder._

"Look familiar?" Jacobs didn't appear concerned that Billy wasn't answering him. "I knew your pardon papers were horseshit, but I didn't really care. The convicts follow you. The slaves follow you. And," he chuckled, "you actually put down more disquiet than I ever could have. One word from you and they'd all go right back to work. I knew you were helping that slave-"

"Marcus."

"Yes, him. I knew you were helping him sneak one's and two's out. It was perfect. You have to give them a little something or the whole place goes up like a tinderbox. We're badly outnumbered, as I'm sure you're aware. It wouldn't take much, if they were organized, to burn this whole place to the ground. But you? My God, you were the best sergeant I had. A captain couldn't ask for a better quartermaster."

Gooseflesh broke out down Billy's arms. He recounted each and every time he silenced complaints, talk of escape or rebellion. Each time he set the men right back to work. How Jacobs had foisted a formal leadership role on him before the Kent's and Rowling's returned and put a stop to it. He'd served Jacobs as dutifully as he once served Flint.

"When the Locke's arrived, I knew they'd try something. The last minister and his family had. Weak moralists who have no sense of how things really are and what needs to be done to build and protect a community like this. I was a bit disquieted when I saw your and Mrs. Locke's little tete-a-tete. That was when I started to wonder if you might be one of Flint's pirates. Not just any pirate, but one of the brethren. I knew her history well enough and we both know the two of you weren't peers. But I trusted you, based on your performance, to shut it down as efficiently as you shut everything else down."

Billy's hands tightened on the poster, straining the limits of the paper. He still couldn't look at Jacobs. He might give himself away if he looked the man in the eye.

"Imagine my surprise when you, Will James, my most trusted leader, started fucking the minister's wife."

It took everything Billy had to temper his reaction. Jacobs leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching him like a cat with a mouse.

"That was fine, too. Let the little tart have her adventure. God knows she wasn't getting it from Mr. Locke and you had certainly earned it."

He was goading him, needling for a break in the wall that was Billy's expression. Billy wouldn't give in, no matter how badly he wanted to wrap his hands around that man's throat and squeeze the life out of him.

Jacobs sighed again. "The problem was when you let it become such a distraction you began to fail in your duties."

"Wasn't aware I had those duties."

"Did you know that this very night they had some kind of counsel meeting to discuss an uprising? With my own executive officer, no less. It seems Mr. Locke was interesting enough, just not to his wife."

Billy let his head loll to the side so he could level a proper sneer at Jacobs. "Sounds like your problem, not mine."

Jacobs thin lips quirked. "Oh, that'll be taken care of soon enough. I think a patrol into French territory is in order. Anything can happen out there."

"Then you've got it all worked out."

"Not quite." His ghastly version of humor left. "I still have a problem of two sanctimonious children who think they know what's best for this colony and an upstart slave who has forgotten his place."

Billy exhaled through his nose in a quick, derisive huff. "And you need a convict to fix this for you? I think that says more about you than me."

The predatory gleam returned to Jacobs' eyes. "No, I don't need you. I could execute Marcus, and probably half the slaves in this camp and any convict I decide was participating. But you see, in the long run, that will only make Camp Jackson weak. I need a unified front. I need men and women who believe in what we're doing here. I want you to end all this mess. Go back to what you were doing before. Keep the peace. Let them have their little escapes when they need to let off steam and ensure they believe rebellion is impossible. Let them believe you speak for them to me. Mrs. Locke would be in sore need of a husband when he abandons her, and he will. I'll see to that. You could have a real fresh start here, Mr. Manderly."

The speech gave Billy pause. It hearkened back to Hornigold shouting about en masse pardons from his ship; it was so wildly beyond expectations that Billy instinctively doubted the offer. "You would do all that? As long as I go on the account and act in your interests?"

Jacobs nodded.

"And if I don't?"

"I will visit every Hell on you I can conjure."

Billy had to smile at this. "You think there's something you can do to me I haven't already lived through?"

"You're right." Jacobs squatted low, right next to the bars. "Anything I would do to you, I'll just do to her. Right here. Right in front of you."

Billy's blood froze. This time, he couldn't wipe the horror and fury off his face. His hands shook with the need to leap out at Jacobs, but there was nowhere for him to go.

Jacobs seized on Billy's reaction. "I'll tear her apart and there will be nothing you can do about it. I can give you everything or I can take it away. I'm not asking much. You need to think very hard about what it is you hope to accomplish here."

The paper tore in his quaking hands.

"Don't worry, I have plenty of extra copies." Jacobs straightened and returned his tricorn to his head. "We don't have much time. I'll need an answer soon."

Before Jacobs was out the door, Billy found his voice.

"Fuck you."

* * *

It was too fucking early, yet here she was, Lizzie Sans Souci - a French surname that had been mispronounced her entire life - running errands like a common shop girl.

Elizabeth Sweet had once, briefly, been the most sought after courtesan of the aristocracy. Even the mighty could be struck low and that was the thought that kept her working.

She had clawed her way up from the gutter, from certain death. She found a role in their world, a role they demanded and she filled it with an expertise they loved, right up until it became inconvenient. They cast her down, back into the gutter as if she had somehow wronged them. Her success was an affront to their own and they needed to remind her of it.

The iron key was a small weight in the pocket of her skirt. She kept thumbing it through the fabric, drawing power from it.

"Can you do it?" She slid the key across a low table, just out of sight from anyone who might be up and passing by, to the meaty hand of the camp blacksmith.

"How many?" He took it and tucked into his heavy apron.

"As many as you can make without them noticing. If we get the chance to use them, we'll need to be quick."

The blacksmith needed no payment. He was a convict like most of the other skilled tradesmen. A chance to walk away and torch a bit of English rule of law in the process was payment enough for most of them.

Next, she found Mimba, who shared household duties between the Kent and Rowlings families. It was always Mimba or Auba who completed this task. They couldn't be seen speaking to each other, lest anyone question such a friendship. They could, however, pass close enough to bump into each other.

A scrap of paper found its way into Lizzie's hand and Mimba was gone as quickly as she'd arrived.

This note was simpler than previous messages. Most of the others had been numbers - numbers of rifles and pistols, head counts of the injured and ill, head counts of those who would not rebel. Today's message just read, " _Yes_ " in delicate script.

Before this was over, Lizzie Sans Souci would cast them into the gutter and use their corpses to climb back out.

* * *

"Please, sit." Captain Jacobs held out the chair for her. Abigail eyed it warily before sitting. He had never – not once – treated her with such deference. "Tea?"

Abigail shook her head. Her neck and shoulders were stiff. She'd walked around the camp for hours until exhaustion began to set in. She was still too angry to face the men in her house, so instead she'd chosen to sleep on a bench in the chapel. She'd awoken to a low fire burning in the corner stove and a blanket carefully tucked around her.

Jacobs regarded her across the desk then pushed the tea set aside. "I'll get right to it then. I trust given your experience with Captain Flint and the men of the _Walrus_ , you are familiar with one William 'Bones' Manderly? Tell me," he held out a rolled up poster to her, "who does that look like to you?"

She recognized his square jaw, the length of his nose, the way his ears were a shade too big to be handsome. It was a surprisingly accurate rendering. The poster listed his height correctly, his distinctly blue eyes, and the tattoos that could be seen on his arms. His most notorious crimes were listed in single words beneath his name.

"You knew who he was from the moment you set foot in my camp and for that alone I could have you arrested for treason." Abigail opened her mouth to speak, not sure what she would say, but Jacobs held up a silencing hand. "You have undermined my authority here from the start and that's not even the worst of it."

He leaned forward and took the paper from her hands. To her shame, tears welled up in her eyes. A kerchief appeared before her face and she took it, though it felt repellent in her hands. "I know about you and your husband's insurrection plot."

Abigail felt her brow furrowing. She stared at her hands, searching for an answer that wasn't there. What was he talking about? Having one discussion – one she wasn't even party to – hardly amounted to a plot.

"Do not bother fishing for lies, Mrs. Locke, you are not very good at it." Jacobs rose and moved around the desk until he leaned in front of her. "Your crimes are numerous and I have more than enough evidence to see both of you hanged at the fort for this."

"But we didn't-"

"Stop." He quiet, firm tone brooked no room for further argument. "He will be executed, of that there can be no alternative. But the manner in which Billy Bones meets his end and what I chose to do with his partners really depends on you."

Executed. They would hang him, probably after a rollicking public trial. Tears dripped down her cheeks into her lap, leaving little wet splotches on her well-worn dress. A steady finger tipped her chin up to meet Jacobs' dark eyes.

"I can give him a merciful death. Spare him the humiliation of a public trial and the pain of hanging. I know how much that means to you."

Of course he knew. Abigail shut her eyes and cursed her naiveté. Of course he knew about them. There could be no other way in Camp Jackson.

"What do you want?" she whispered. What had Ned Lowe wanted? Jacobs was just another pirate and Abigail was just another pawn, again. Her chest felt crushed, like it was collapsing in on itself. She could lose Billy and find herself right back where she started: locked up, sick, helpless, and waiting to be used.

"You have two choices. I would prefer if you and your husband could assume the roles to which you have been assigned: preach whatever version of Christianity you want, so long as you encourage acceptance, forgiveness, appreciating the gifts you have, that sort of thing. You will work to silence any and all dissent. You will teach the convicts and slaves only that which encourages docility."

She could do that. She was born and bred to do exactly that. She was an expert at doing that. She could titter away her evenings with Clarissa and Gertie, look down her nose at Lizzie and Hannah, turn blind to the slaves.

She could do that and she would hate herself with every fiber of her being. She would waste away as surely as she would have had she accepted one of those early odious marriage offers. Probably faster, more efficiently.

"Or," Jacobs continued, "you and your husband can leave. However, I understand that your husband accepted a debt forgiveness offer to come here. How brave of him, to take on some ruined girl's debt just to serve here. I imagine you do not look forward to spending your best years in a debtor's prison. Maybe you can work off your debt to the Crown right here in the fields next to those animals you care so much about."

For a moment, she forgot about Billy. She could only see her kind, generous, forgiving husband. His life would be over. He would never survive such conditions. Strangely, Abigail's instincts told her _she_ would survive, but not Albert. He took so many risks for her, put his entire existence in her hands. To ask him to leave would be a betrayal of the worst sort.

There was no outcome to this situation that didn't rely on her betrayal of Billy. Arranging for a quick and merciful death was the sort of gift no one asked for. She stood to lose both of them, or just one.

She stood to lose every value she held dear.

What would Billy do?

Her tears dried and her sniffling stopped. She marshaled her expression back into something she hoped was cool and impassive. "My father's resources were vast. I accepted Mr. Locke's proposal because he was kind but I assure you, we will be fine without the Crown's debt forgiveness."

Jacobs' lips twitched. The bastard looked actually amused at her. "Fine, fine. You're still not very good at this, but," he reached back to the desk and produced another piece of parchment for her, "whatever it is you hope to accomplish here, do you really know the people you've chosen to trust?"

This poster was much harder to read than the last one. It wasn't a poster, not really, but additional information about a wanted man for any man of law who might take it upon himself to arrest the criminal. It was Billy's charges, spelled out in detail.

There were so many words, so much black ink, it was hard to follow. Some items stuck out, though.

 _Crew-killer. Twenty dead or more slaves. Untold scores stolen and resold to pirates. Black spot. Murder by hanging. Age 11: murdered. Audrey Underhill, age 8, murdered._

"What exactly do you think you're fighting for?"

* * *

Jacobs looked between Billy and Abigail, then pulled the door closed. "I'll leave you two alone." She swore she heard him chuckling as he and the guard walked away.

It was strange to see Billy like this, chained to floor. He often looked too long, too rangy, for any given setting, but this exacerbated the way he never quite seemed to fit. His booted feet nearly touched the opposite wall. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. His beard was growing in. It would be soft to the touch now. The leather wrap she'd made for him was obscured by the manacles.

He wasn't looking at her. What would she do when he did level those brilliant blue eyes on her? Would she forget in an instant everything she'd just learned? Would she cry and try to reach for his hands? Would it all be forgiven?

He was looking at her now with an intensity she hadn't seen since their first time together. His whole being flared to life. He lunged to stand but his chains yanked him back to the ground. With a snarled curse, he shook the manacles then ran his strained fingers through his short hair. "You have to go. Now. Tell Swann he has to take you and run. He'll know what to do."

"Is it true?"

"There is no time for this, Abi-"

"We have nothing but time. Is. It. True?" She held out his charge sheet.

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbed with the motion. He watched her in silence, the thoughts racing across his face. She saw the doubt and fear, then the shame. There was so much shame she thought he might shatter from it.

Her heart broke open anew. The paper slipped from her fingers and her tired eyes felt tears again.

"I thought," he said, "I told myself over and over again that it was all worth it if it meant protecting the people I cared about. Fuck everyone else, right? But I knew I was full of shit even then."

"Why?" Abigail's voice cracked.

She watched him struggle with the question. If he lied to her now, or feigned a misunderstanding, she didn't think she'd survive it.

Finally, he nodded, mostly to himself. "The way you looked at me…no one has looked at me like that in years. Like I was a man, not a monster. I know I should have told you, but I couldn't. Didn't want to. I didn't want to let you go."

Abigail sank into the bench when her knees would no longer support her. A bird chirped outside. It was hard to recognize the sunny day rolling along as normal just outside these walls. Men and women were getting to work and would have no idea that her world was dissolving.

"Billy, I don't know what to do." The charge sheet rested near her foot, glaring up at her from the floor.

He shifted as best he could and demanded her full attention. "Please listen to me, one last time. Abigail, he is going to hurt you. Swann will know what to do, he'll take care of both of you, but you have to go right now."

"I can't just leave. I can't abandon these people."

"You have to!" His manacles rang with his pleading gesture. "He wants me to turn on them like I did in Nassau and God help me, I cannot do it. I love you, but I will not do it again, so I need you to get yourself out of here."

Abigail blinked and the breath left her body. _I love you_. He chose this moment, with the truth about his fall from grace and iron bars between them, to tell her. She'd known it well enough. His every action belied his feelings, but he'd never said it and she'd never make him. Then, amidst the moving targets of his words, she found something even more shocking.

"Jacobs asked you the same thing he did me?"

Billy nodded. "Most likely, yeah. He wants to keep this in-house, I don't know why."

"And you won't do it?"

"I think I told him to go fuck himself, but last night is kind of a blur."

Abigail stood and smoothed out her skirts. She left the paper on the ground, content to leave it to die. "Alright."

"You'll run?"

"No."

"Abigail, I am begging you."

She stopped at the door. It took every resource in her body to not collapse against the bars and reach for him, drawing in the comfort she knew he would offer. She thought of Aubrey Underhill. She thought of the slaves who'd trusted him to fight for them. She steeled herself.

"Do not presume to beg me for anything, Mr. Manderly. I am simply ascertaining exactly what's going on here, and I will manufacture my own solution." She paused once more before leaving. "I will do what I can to help you."

Abigail held her breath and shuffled her feet until she made it to the back side of a tent along the edge of the camp, where she promptly vomited until there was nothing left but bile.

* * *

"Billy's in jail!" Abigail burst through the front door of her house, then pulled up short at the sight before her. "What's going on?"

Marcus and Swann were bent over the kitchen table, which was covered in little mounds of…was that cornmeal and sugar? Both men looked up at her entrance. Swann's lips pursed and he cocked his head to the side. "Who's Billy?"

Albert appeared from the bedroom, followed closely by Kanuna. He gave her a merry smile, in sharp contrast to the wrought tension vibrating in the small house.

"My friend." He pulled her into a hug then pushed a small sack into her hands. "You have to pack now. Just what you can carry in this."

"I…what?" Abigail turned around, searching each man present for an answer to her bewilderment. "Where did you go? Why did you leave?"

She was ushered toward her bedroom by Albert and left the other three men to continue whatever it is they were doing with her meager cooking inventory. "No time for that now, Abigail. Kanuna says a complement of French and Chickasaw raiders are on their way here. Marcus has seen to most of the preparations, so we just need to pack and be ready to go."

She pushed his hand away when he held out her other favorite everyday dress and shouted in an embarrassingly shrill voice, "Stop! I have had my fill today of men giving me half-answers and telling me what to do. I will not pack a thing until you explain yourself." She crossed her arms, plopped onto the bed, and jutted out her chin. It was childish, of course, but she felt her emotions stretched to a breaking point. There was no time to process any of this before the next catastrophe presented itself.

At least he looked appropriately shamed. Her breath was coming so short she was seeing spots. This was all simply too much: Captain Jacobs' threats, the truth about Billy's crimes, his pending execution. Did Albert say something about a Chickasaw raiding party?

He took her hands in his and dropped to a knee before her, as he had so often when they had difficult conversations. They both spoke to each other better at eye level. "I know this is a lot."

"You don't know the half of it."

Albert pushed his spectacles back up his nose. "Be that as it may, Kanuna has been tracking this war party for days and beat them here, but not by much. They could attack as early as tomorrow. Marcus and Ned have a plan to get as many people out of here as possible, so we must act now. Tonight."

"A plan?" Abigail pulled her hands free. "How long have you all been working on this?"

The brief hesitation before he responded spoke volumes. He blinked once and blush colored his cheeks. "A few weeks. We thought it best not to involve you until it became absolutely necessary."

Just like Billy hadn't thought it was necessary to divulge exactly what he'd done in the years they'd been apart, lest she stop giving herself to him so freely. Like her father had never disclosed his dealings with pirates until it was too late and she was left to clean up the mess.

She stepped away from the bed, brushing past Albert. Her eyes stung, though she didn't think she had any more tears left to cry. She scooped up the dress and shoved it into the sack, then began fishing through her small dresser for necessities. She didn't look back at Albert when she spoke. "Whatever is happening right now, Billy is in the brig and I will not leave without him."

"I'll see to it," Marcus's gentle voice came from the bedroom door. She offered him a wan smile. Why ever he was helping them she didn't know, but she would be grateful.

Albert waited behind her, but she couldn't look at him. "We have until sunset," he said. "After that we will have to make our move."

"Of course, our big move. The plot you've been working on behind my back. The plot that has Billy in jail and will be executed for if we are unsuccessful. The reason I was called before Jacobs this very morning and threatened. The plot that will have Ned killed."

"Abigail, please."

She whirled on him. "Everything I have done here has been honest! I confronted Clarissa Kent myself! I told you about Billy before it went too far. Everything I have done, I have done in the light of day. This," she shook her hand at the open door, "this is what got my father killed. This is what turned Billy into what he is. This is wrong and you know it, otherwise you would have been honest with me."

Albert tilted his head and frowned, as he often did in sermon. "And what is Billy? This is Will's real name, I presume?"

"Those are his secrets, not mine." She crossed her arms and went back to packing.

"Please trust me that we are going to help more people here tonight than we would have any other way. I am sorry for making you feel lied to."

When she was left alone, she felt her shoulders slump.

There was nothing more she wanted at this moment than to talk to Albert about the course of her morning. She wanted to tell him the details of Jacobs' threats and try to puzzle out what Jacobs really wanted, why he was so determined to manipulate them into staying and helping rather than running them off and relying on the authority of his position. She wanted to tell him what she'd learned about Billy. She wanted the reassurance that she hadn't been simply blind, ignoring what she already knew to be true in the abstract until she could no longer ignore the reality.

She wanted to talk to someone about the horrendous moral battle she now faced: his actions were unforgivable by any measure, but her feelings were too strong. How could someone she loved so much be this person? In the worst way, she thought she even understood why he did all of it. She didn't like it and it wasn't what she imagined she would do, but there was a brutal logic to it. Just today she'd been faced with a similar choice and she could see the appeal. It would be easy - just as Billy said - to chose her husband over everyone else. She could turn a blind eye to their suffering and tell herself it was alright because that meant keeping Albert out of prison.

But he lied. He didn't trust her to understand that. He didn't trust that he could tell her what he'd done and why, and that she would listen to him.

Her head ached, her breathing staggered until she saw yet more spots. She sat down until it passed, then lay back and shut her eyes against the world.

After the house fell silent, the men presumably off to whatever tasks they'd assigned themselves, she finally emerged from the bedroom. She studied the mounds and cuts in the baking material spread on the table until they began to take shape: hills, mountains, valleys, rivers or roads.

Marcus had drawn them a map.


	14. Chapter 14

This day of all days would be unnaturally hot. The late afternoon sun rose high and punishing. The air held a particularly steamy quality. Abigail's thoughts kept wandering back to Billy, languishing in the camp's brig. As quickly as they turned his direction, she remembered everything she'd learned and grew angry all over again. The sweltering heat only fueled her feelings. After learning that every man in her life had in some way conspired to lie to her, she turned to the one person who preferred brutal honesty in all dealings: Lizzie.

Lizzie was, naturally, also aware of some sort of plot, but quickly reassured Abigail that while everyone knew _something_ , no one knew _everything_ , not even Albert and Ned. The general idea was that as long as there wasn't a plan, per se, there was nothing any one person could reveal to the Marines.

The people of Camp Jackson were the cogs and spokes and levers that, if fully assembled, would coalesce into tangible action. The blacksmith, for instance, knew only that he had made keys. On Abigail's prompting - possibly the only bit of sedition she could take a measure of credit for - Auba and Mimba located the most important record books in the Kent estate. Should that tenuous something happen, they knew precisely where to go to destroy all official documentation of the slaves in Jackson. There would be no way for anyone to track how many might have run off, making them that much harder to track down.

The two women slogged through freshly tilled dirt in the field, hauling fresh water up and down the lines for the men and women working. As they went, Lizzie periodically shook hands with a slave, slipping them a key before moving on. They looked surprised and then a little grim. They all knew the time for action had come. How or why Lizzie chose the individuals was a mystery Abigail was too tired to ask.

It was backbreaking work, but it kept Abigail busy and feeling at least sort of useful. If Jacobs had any suspicions about the activity she'd chosen for the day, he had yet to act on them. It was simultaneously a relief and dreadful. The man had feigned ignorance on so many other things, she couldn't help but believe that he must know about this, too. She felt his eyes on her every move.

A thought occurred to her at random that at first startled her and then became unbearably funny. Abigail giggled until she had to stop and put her bucket down so she could properly laugh.

Lizzie turned, her thick curly hair blowing across her face. She looked like she thought Abigail might be losing her marbles, which was a decent possibility. She wiped the sweat off her brow with an ancient handkerchief and put her hands on her hips in a posture that mirrored Hannah when she was feeling particularly motherly. "What are you doing?"

Abigail had to catch her breath, sniffing and wiping tears from her eyes. When she pulled herself together, she picked up her bucket so they could resume their trek. "When Albert asked me to come out here with him, he said we were going to help people, but look at this." She tilted her chin down the line. "Everyone here has already helped themselves."

They stopped to let one of the slaves drink. A few more gathered around the bucket and Lizzie must have seen her target because she slipped her hand out of her pocket and shook the woman's hand.

"What'd you think, you and the minister were gonna save every convict and slave you met all by yourselves?"

"You may find this hard to believe," Abigail paused to let Lizzie snort, "but I was precisely that naive. I've been that naive up until this moment, which is also something that would be funny if it wasn't so pathetic given everything I've been through. As if I didn't already know better."

They picked up and continued on in silence until Lizzie said, "Sometimes the problem with you lot is you think you're going to fix everything. You miss what's right in front of you. You've done plenty, certainly more than the last minister and his wife."

Abigail kept her eyes on the horizon. The Smoky Mountains rose up behind the camp, so dark they were nearly purple, wild and untamed. There was a whole world out there completely untouched by her people. It made her feel as small as she felt on the ocean. "I'm not sure I know what's right in front of me anymore. I can forgive Albert, I know he meant well, but Will…"

"What did Will do?" Lizzie stopped, her face a knot of concern.

"Captain Jacobs showed me his charge sheet."

"And?" Lizzie tipped her chin expectantly.

Abigail huffed and scowled. "And he lied to me. Severely. For selfish reasons. I don't know if he's the person I thought he was. He did unspeakable things."

Lizzie's eyes narrowed in the way that usually preceded some manner of tongue lashing, but she took a deep breath and schooled her expression. "What would you say if I told you I helped a man abuse more women than I can remember?"

That stalled Abigail's thought process. "No, that's…that's different."

"Is it?" Lizzie cocked her head. "I was on contract with this blue blood. He was gentle with me, but he always wanted something more. We'd take an unmarked hack to Cheapside and pick up the type of whore no one misses. I'd hand him the strap he'd use to beat them, choke them until they were nearly dead. And do you know what I prayed for? I prayed they didn't die because I knew I'd be next."

Lizzie's expression glassed over with memories Abigail could only imagine. Despite the heat, a chill shivered down her spine.

"The world we come from - me and Will - it's ugly. We do ugly things and we don't think twice about it because everything is ugly. I don't know what he did, but I'd imagine he's just as disgusted with himself as I am."

They walked on in silence. Abigail didn't know what to say and Lizzie was lost thought. When they finished their rounds in a haze, both women stood between the fields and the camp, unsure how to move forward. Their jobs were basically done; all that remained was to wait.

Lizzie reached out and squeezed Abigail's hand. "Don't be too hard on them. Everyone's doing their best."

Waiting was the worst part. Abigail had never been good at twiddling her thumbs, nor was she a fan of not knowing what was coming. She'd had quite enough of that for one lifetime. What were they even waiting for?

She survived the sack of Charles Town, though she imagined this experience would be different. There were no stone buildings to blast with canons and only a fraction of the population. No, the camp would burn and burn quickly. All those great canvas tents would go up like tinder, despite the waxy waterproofing on the material. Her home and the chapel sat far enough way that they might be spared, but it wasn't going to be her home for much longer, was it?

The Kent and Rowling estates were doomed. The thought of those children being trapped in a burning house made Abigail's chest constrict. Her first instinct was to rush over there and tell them, but tell them what? If she raised any alarm, she'd be dooming her own friends and loved ones.

I am as helpless as I was in the hold of Captain Lowe's ship, she thought. It brought a bitter taste to her mouth.

A sense of purpose blossomed and with it an idea. When faced with an impossible choice, one must come up with an alternative solution. She would not risk one woman's children to protect another's.

Precisely one hour later, she was leading Clarissa, Gertie, and their troop of children trailing behind her on Abigail's well worn path to the pond.

"Truly," she said over her shoulder, "the sunset from the pond is spectacular. I can't believe you all didn't know this was here!"

She kept up her best smile despite the grumbles from Gertie's oldest. At three-and-ten and five-and-ten, they were never happy. The younger children, however, chased each other and raced around the group, delighted by the late afternoon adventure. Abigail wasn't quite sure how she would cajole them all into climbing up the boulders, then through the tiny crevice and into the shallow water, but it was the safest place she could think of. Any raiding party heading east to the them would likely miss it - if the party even made it this far today - and anyone on the run out of Jackson would be in too much of a hurry to stop and harass a group of women and children.

"We're putting a great deal of faith in you, Mrs. Locke." Clarissa caught up, though a sweat had begun to bead on her forehead. "This is awfully far away from our homes."

Abigail waved a dismissive hand and kept her eyes on the trail, certain that too much eye contact would reveal the lie. "Oh, I come out here almost every night to pray and watch the sunset. I assure you we are much closer to the camp than it seems."

"It is terribly dark," Gertie said between pants. "And this exertion is rather unseemly."

"On the other side of those boulders," Abigail pointed ahead, "I promise you won't be disappointed."

"Boulders?" Gertie recoiled, but continued walking with the group.

"You are making a lot of promises this evening," Clarissa said under her breath. "We so seldom socialize, I was beginning to think you didn't like us very much."

They made it to the base of the rock formation and the younger children were already scrambling up. Gertie and her oldest girl tried calling them down, but it was no use.

Clarissa stayed by Abigail's side and leveled her with a hard stare from which there was no escape. "What are we really doing out here, Mrs. Locke?"

A sheen of sweat broke out on Abigail's palms underneath the scrutiny. "Lady Kent, I only wanted to share this with you."

"I have entertained this," Clarissa said, "because I believe that despite our differences, you would never willfully endanger my children. Since you were so determined to get us all out of our homes, I must presume you know something of grave concern. Or you have truly taken leave of your senses dragging us out here. Which is it?"

"What's the matter?" Gertie couldn't quite manage to split her attention between the tense standoff and the loose children.

Clarissa cocked a perfectly shaped brow at Abigail. "Yes, what is the matter?"

The debate in Abigail's mind didn't last long. She set her jaw and straightened her shoulders. "I need you all to follow me up these boulders and to the other side. You'll be safe there."

Shock registered on Clarissa's face, then fear. Her eyes flashed back the way they had come and Abigail could see her thoughts as plain as day.

"You will not be able to help them," Abigail whispered. None of the children had yet registered that anything was wrong and Gertie was still trying to call them all back down.

Clarissa swallowed once, nodded, and schooled her expression into the command that came so naturally to women of her station. "You will all follow Mrs. Locke and do exactly as she says." Her voice came out clear and strong enough to silence even the youngest giggles. The group stilled, frozen in place by the sudden shift from lighthearted fun to stern orders.

Gertie opened her mouth to argue, but Clarissa silenced her with a single look.

Abigail lead them the rest of the way with only a few quiet complaints. By the time the entire group was settled, the first war cries and shots rang through the still night air.

The uprising of Camp Jackson had begun.

* * *

Billy strained against the chains, craning his neck near to the breaking point to get a better look out of the tiny stockade window. The shouts that rose up were a surprising mix of French and a native tongue he didn't recognize. It wasn't Kanuna's more familiar Cherokee. Dancing orange light and the acrid stench of smoke told him the camp was on fire and it was only a matter of time before the flames spread to this building. Or a stray flaming arrow found its way to his cell.

How lovely it would be to have survived Nassau, Skeleton Island, and everything in between, only to burn to death while locked in a brig.

The guard abandoned his post as soon as the attack started. Billy's helpless ignorance grated on him. What was going on out there? The shouting from the Marines was disorganized, far too disorganized for what he knew them capable. This had to be more than a simple revenge raid by the French. The French army wouldn't risk starting a war over some dead trappers, no matter whose cousin they were. This was off the account, lightly manned and likely out of uniform. So why hadn't the Marines put it down already? Billy rapidly ran down the possibilities.

His manacles dug into his already bruised wrists, but the pain barely registered in his racing mind. None of these scenarios, good or bad, mattered if he couldn't get out of these bloody chains.

Just when he thought he'd burst from the not knowing, the stockade door flung open and Albert rushed in.

"What's going on? What are you doing? Who's out there?" He battered Albert with questions he didn't bother to answer. Billy only had more questions when Albert produced a key that looked suspiciously like one of the keys the sergeant of the guard always carried.

"Kanuna thought he'd beat them here," he said between heavy, puffing breaths, sweat bleeding through the front of aging white shirt, "but I guess he was wrong."

Billy had no idea what to make of that, but before he could form a question, a red-coated figure appeared in the doorway. He shouted something useless enough that Albert only squinted at him as he brought the key up.

The key made it into the lock but no further before Corporal Howland snatched back by the collar of his coat with a vicious yank. He collided with the wall while Howland spat obscenities and Billy roared, surging against his restraints with renewed vigor.

His vision colored with helpless rage. The fight was only feet away and entirely out of his reach as Howland mercilessly hammered away at the much weaker man.

"You fucking traitor!" He shouted in Albert's face. The sounds of the blows echoed throughout the small structure, the sickening sound of flesh and bone colliding.

In his rage, Howland didn't notice that they weren't alone until the rifle butt cracked him across the temple and he crumpled over Albert's lap. In the momentum of her strike and tangled in her own petticoats, Lizzie stumbled over the mess of legs and the long weapon in her hands.

The brig came to an abrupt silence, save the panting of every person in the room and the noise from outside while the three of them stared at each other in shock.

Albert blinked up at Lizzie owlishly while he righted himself and then offered her his hand. "Thanks," he practically breathed.

Lizzie's lip curled at Howland's prostrate form. "Bastard had it coming. He's lucky we're in a hurry."

Albert straightened his glasses and his collar and finished unlocking the cell.

Billy stood on embarrassingly unsteady legs when the irons dropped. Thankfully, Albert was there with a steadying arm. Billy eased back just far enough to lightly clap Albert on the shoulder and gave Lizzie a once over. "You alright?"

Ash had collected on some of the ridges of her face and down her decolletage, but she otherwise looked fine. She pushed her loose hair back and nodded until her lips curved in a sly smile. "That was satisfying."

It brought an unexpected, shallow laugh to Billy's throat. "Right." The trio stood there, staring at each other in a daze until Billy cleared his throat. "We should tie him up."

They shook to life and together they disarmed and rolled Howland's unconscious form into the cell and locked the gate, which was oddly satisfying from the other side. Keeping the others behind him, Billy poked his head around the open door, aghast at the sight: Camp Jackson was in chaos.

He now understood why the Marines had sounded as if in total disarray. French and Chickasaw raiders rushed in and out in uncoordinated attacks while the slaves and some of the convicts attempted to flee in any direction. The Marines couldn't predict where the raiders would strike next before disappearing into the shadows. Some Marines shouted for a formation to defend against the attacks while others shouted for pursuers to stop the escapees.

It didn't help that the Frenchmen were recognizable only when they shouted with their native counterparts. They otherwise blended in with the convicts, darting in and out of the tents, laughing as they lobbed torches onto the canvas tents and took shots at anyone who had the misfortune to run across their lines of sight.

"We've got a team of horses and a wagon ready. Kanuna's watching them," Albert spoke, taking a peek over Billy's shoulder.

"Where's Abigail?" Billy asked the question absently as he collected Howland's rifle and pistol, as well as the extra powder and shot they'd taken off him. He slid the baldric and sword on and flexed his shoulders, a weight that was at once familiar and foreign.

"I believe she went to the Kent estate to burn their records."

"You believe-?" Billy whirled on Albert.

"No," Lizzie said, "I saw Mimba on my way here. She and Auba cleared out both homes, except for some slaves no one was there."

Billy yanked the man nearly off his feet by that bloody ridiculous reverend's collar and shook him. "Are you telling me you don't know where the fuck she is?"

Albert's face went even redder from the restriction to his breathing. He wheezed out an answer as best he could. "I saw…her go…to the Kent's…but too busy…"

Billy dropped him with a disgusted growl.

"If she went to the Kent's earlier," Lizzie pushed around Billy to help Albert back to his feet, "and no one was there when Mimba and Auba checked, then maybe she took them somewhere. They've got about eight kids between the two of them, it's not like they could have just vanished."

Billy and Albert shared a knowing look. That did sound exactly like Abigail.

"Do you know where she might have gone?" Albert asked.

Billy nodded and wordlessly strode into the flaming night, driven by a sense of purpose he hadn't felt for many years. He and a mounted Chickasaw warrior saw each other at the same time. As Billy shouldered the long rifle, the warrior let out a battle cry and urged his mount into a gallop. At the last possible moment, Billy sidestepped and instead of firing, swung the rifle around and cracked the man in the chest with it, knocking him clear off the back of the horse. Without pausing to ascertain whether the rider lived or died, Billy caught up to the animal - a massive, saddle-less paint with feathers woven into his mane - leapt on and urged him into a reckless dash straight into the woods.

He had to get to Abigail before someone else did.

* * *

"Wait!" Clarissa picked up her skirts splashed through the shallow water to stop Abigail before she disappeared back the way they came. She grabbed Abigail's arm in a surprisingly fierce grasp. "If anything happens to my family tonight, I want you to know I will never rest until I see you hanged for your part in this."

Abigail gulped and nodded. Only when she said, "I understand," did Clarissa release her death grip, turn, and march back to shore with all the dignity she possessed as a woman of breeding.

As much as she wanted to stay to confirm that everyone would be safe throughout the night, Abigail had to get back to her own people. Albert would surely be wondering where she went. They may even be waiting on her at this very moment.

She slid and scrambled down the boulders until her feet hit the soft earth running. The closer she got to the camp, the more distinct the sounds became: rifle and pistol shots, undulating cries, women's screams. Jackson was an orange glow in the distance, far off but so engulfed in flames she could already smell the smoke.

Her feet flew over the familiar path, bounding and leaping as fast as they could carry her. She sent up a silent prayer of thanks for Billy, first for showing her this place and then for giving her a reason to come out here so often she was shockingly fit. Few other women of her station could - or would - boast being able to run like this. She was so focused on her destination, she didn't see him until it was too late.

Captain Jacobs materialized from behind a tree, close enough that Abigail had to skid to avoid barreling into him. He snaked an arm out and caught her about the waist, preventing her from stumbling in a mockery of chivalry.

"Why Mrs. Locke," his voice murmured in her ear, "what on earth are you doing out here all by yourself on a night such as this? You might run across any manner of criminal."

She struggled uselessly against his arm, earning a wry chuckle.

"Let me go!" She kicked her feet and pummeled his arm, but this only elicited more laughter. Finally, she reached back over her head and raked her nails across his cheek.

Jacobs snarled and threw her to the forest floor. Her arm landed on a rock and she cried out in pain, but still forced her feet back under her. His boot connected with her ribs, sending her back to the ground, wheezing and gasping.

"As I said, anything at all can happen to a woman alone in the woods during an enemy attack." Jacobs paced behind her like a jungle cat.

Strong fingers laced into her hair and jerked her to her knees. Abigail brought her hands up to his wrist, still fighting him despite getting absolutely nowhere for her efforts. Jacobs stepped around and bent at the waist so he could bark in her face, "You were supposed to leave!"

He released her scalp only to deliver an open-palm slap across her cheek that sent her reeling. A coppery taste filled her mouth.

"I never wanted to hurt either of you!" He kicked her again, this time with more force. "The others left when they got sick. But oh no, not the Locke's. You had to stay and cause trouble."

Abigail's vision blurred with pain and the blood roared in her ears so loudly it was a wonder she could hear him at all. Whatever horrors Lowe had visited on her had been primarily of the psychological nature. He made threats, he kept her sick and locked up, but for all his evil he never actually laid a hand on her. His crew had operated under the penalty of death that she was to remain unharmed unless her father refused to ransom her.

She'd never been struck a day in her life, not even by her most strict governess. Her father forbade it.

It was astonishing how the pain made all coherent thought come and go at random, like balls on a billiard table. Just when her mind grasped a thought, it fled in a rush of blinding physical agony.

Jacobs had her by the hair again, he was yelling at her and pointing toward the camp. It took a moment to sort out his voice from the discordant nonsense in her mind. "This is your fault! You did this! I've lost everything because of you!"

His eyes stalled her. He'd been so cool and collected every time she'd seen him. Captain Jacobs had intelligent eyes that were always calculating. As they came into focus in her blurry vision, they were wild. The whites where unnaturally bright and the irises unnaturally dark, stark and animalistic. She'd seen this look in men before, most recently during the siege of Charles Town. Those men had been beyond reason or human thought, reduced to their most primal selves.

Captain Jacobs was going kill her.

"You made him sick?" Her voice trembled. Taking in the air necessary to speak was sparking sharp pains in her chest. "You almost killed him."

He tossed his head back and laughed. "Make no mistake, I will kill him tonight, after I'm done with you."

This time when he hit her, it was with his fist. Pain exploded across her face and a fresh wash of blood filled her mouth. She was dimly aware that she was on her back on the ground. Her hands clawed at the ground for purchase, but it didn't stop the dizzying spinning or nausea.

Pain, she learned quickly, was something a person could adapt to. She looked up to see Jacobs looming over her. "He's going to kill you for this."

"Your husband?" Jacobs smirked. "Not bloody likely."

"Billy." Tiny droplets of blood spit from her lips as she formed his name. "He's going to rip you apart when he sees what you've done."

It was strangely comforting to know that no matter how they'd last parted, Billy would go to the ends of the Earth to make sure she was safe. She knew he would come for her the way she knew her own name, the way she knew the sun would still rise tomorrow, and which books her students would actually enjoy. She knew in her bones that he was coming for her and he would blame himself until his dying day for what was about to happen. That part hurt.

"I'll deal with him, too."

If she wasn't mistaken, there was a quiver of doubt in his voice.

Jacobs dropped to his knees, straddling her hips. Her arms rose of their own volition, scratching useless at him, but he easily pinned both wrists with one hand. With the other, he encircled her neck. "I didn't want to do this, but you've left me no choice."

Salty tears ran down her cheeks, burning into an open gash where his fist must have split the skin open. The muscles of his hand squeezed for one terrifying moment, then relaxed. He squeezed again, harder this time, wrapped like an unforgiving vice. Her lungs and eyes burned and she could feel all the bits and pieces that made up her neck fracturing. Then he loosened his grip again. Jacobs was hesitating and Abigail didn't know why. His grip on her wrists was crushing, maybe even breaking the delicate bones there. She almost wished he'd just get it over with because these tenuous seconds were dragging into a lifetime of fear and regret.

She'd never told Billy she loved him. Their last words had been in anger. Her last words to Albert were in anger. If she had just a moment to pen a few thoughts to each of them, it would be alright. She could die if she just knew they knew how sorry she was.

"Please…" She croaked. She could ask him for a moment, couldn't she? They had time. No one knew where they were, except maybe Billy, but who knew when he would figure it out. It could be hours before anyone remembered to get him out of that cell.

As Jacobs hovered over her, his face collapsed into an anguished howl. His closed fist came down. Abigail screamed and closed her eyes, but the pain she anticipated never came. She slowly opened her eyes and saw his fist the wet earth next to her head.

Jacobs remained over her, huffing as if he'd just run a great distance. "I will not be reduced to murdering women alone in the woods because of some pirate's whore."

He rocked back on his heels and stood, leaving Abigail where she lay.

"Let the crows and the savages have you." Jacobs took one final look at her before turning away. She remained in the dirt, bleeding and aching, long after his footfalls disappeared.

Soon the acrid scent of smoke from the camp was impossible to ignore. She had to get up. She had to get back. Jacobs was right: if she stayed, if she let the pain win, she'd be easy pickings. She'd be easy pickings as it was, but at least on her feet she stood a chance.

At the moment the simple act of breathing was inducing sharp pains beneath her breast and neck and her stomach still roiled with pent up vomit. Abigail rolled to her side with great effort, but completing the journey to her hands and knees would be another battle.

After the nausea faded, Abigail mustered the strength to get to her knees. Her heart hammered erratically and each motion was an exercise in physical torture, but she refused to simply lay down and die. In a herculean feat, she staggered to her feet. The pain in her chest spiked then blessedly receded to a dull throb.

She took one step. Her head spun, then she took another. When she was able to put one foot in front of the other, she began a staggering journey back to Camp Jackson.

* * *

A figured appeared through the darkness, still too far off to clearly discern, but Billy's heart hammered with the hope that it might be Abigail. He urged his horse faster despite the lather that already frothed on the animal's neck. Anxiety danced up his spine and pricked at his flesh. Everything in his body screamed that something was wrong, though he kept telling himself his fear was driven by the general state of the camp and not some true instinct.

The figure gained more clarity and Billy's teeth ground together: it wore a red coat. He knew it was Captain Jacobs without needing to get any closer. Fury warred with terror in his blood. Jacobs would only be out here for one reason.

Billy pushed the horse to its limits, dangerously skirting the rough terrain until he got within drawing distance.

Jacobs stopped with his hand on the hilt of his sword. The bastard had the audacity to chuckle. "She did tell me you'd be on your way."

"What the fuck did you do?" Billy threw his leg over the animal's neck and stormed into Jacobs' space until they were nearly nose to nose. Jacobs was disheveled and red in the face in a way that made Billy's hair stand on end. He looked like a man walking away from a fight. His cheek bore the red welts of fingernails having recently scraped away at the flesh.

"I will not explain myself to a pirate." Jacobs didn't so much as flinch.

Billy stepped back, discarding the pistol and rifle he'd acquired, drawing his sword, instead. "You will explain yourself to me."

From his vantage point, he saw slick red on Jacobs' knuckles and smattering on his collar. The anger and dread weren't just simmering, they were boiling over until his vision narrowed to pinpoints and his head swam. Visions of how he might find Abigail danced across his mind, each more horrifying than the last. He killed her.

"So," Jacobs' eyes flicked to the sword and he drew his own, "looking for a fight? You should have just shot me. Surely you already know-"

Billy didn't let him finish. White-hot rage flared to life, burning out all logic and reason until all that was left was an all-consuming anger. He swung wildly with all his might. It was only Jacobs' superior skill that prevented the fight from ending right there. Even with his speed and dexterity, the force of Billy's blows sent him stumbling backward, but he kept his feet and gamely adjusted his grip.

"Just as I thought," Jacobs sucked in a breath, "you have the finesse of an ape with a club." He feinted to one side, now anticipating both the ferocity and complete lack of control to use both to his advantage.

Jacobs' sword danced lightning-quick circles around his own, darting out to cut and slice, which only infuriated him further. The cuts stung, a few might require stitches, but they were shallow. Jacobs was toying with him. He snarled and lunged forward, only to catch several inches of sword embedded in the meaty flesh of his shoulder. Jacobs ripped the weapon back and snickered. Jacobs would nick and cut Billy couldn't stand anymore.

Billy let himself be baited once more before his more calculating nature resurfaced. Instead of throwing his full weight into his next swing, he held back and shot his left arm out, knowing Jacobs would feint again, and caught Jacobs face-first against his outstretched forearm.

Pain lanced from his wrist through his shoulder, but it only served to sharpen his thoughts. Billy would never win this by flying into a berserker rage, as satisfying as it would be to pummel this man's face into a pulp. Perhaps that could come later when he had a firm hold on the upper hand. Jacobs didn't let a bloody, broken, nose slow him down for long.

Jacobs shook his head and grinned with blood pouring from his nose down his mouth. "I always did appreciate your trainability, never one to repeat your mistakes. That is until you started dipping your wick-"

Billy relaunched his assault, but with more care than his initial explosion. He learned from trading strikes with Jacobs: he learned that he would need to be quick and decisive, or Jacobs would cut him to ribbons. He learned that he wouldn't win with swords.

He kept up with Jacobs' precise, vicious strikes until he saw his opening. With a well-placed foot, Jacobs was launched flat on his back, grunting and wheezing. Billy didn't give him a moment to get his breath back before he was on him, raining blow after blow. Blood and spittle - whose, he couldn't quite say - flew with each hit.

The primal need to destroy sang a siren's song. Abigail was out here somewhere, undoubtedly dead. That meant he had only one thing left to do and he was well on his way to success.

True to form, Jacobs wasn't out of the fight yet. Billy let out a bark of pain as pain arced through his thigh and in the next instant their positions reversed. Jacobs' face was mottled and bloody, almost unrecognizable, but now it was his turn to mete out some punishment. Jacobs produced a small knife, now darkened with blood, but Billy caught his wrist before he could bring the blade down.

Jacobs bared his teeth, a broken visage of white and red. "I think I will explain myself. I beat her to within an inch of her life."

His tactic worked. One of Billy's hands dropped away, allowing Jacobs to force the blade closer.

"I was going to leave her for dead," blood dripped down his chin onto Billy's face, "but after this, I think I'm just going to go back and finish what I started."

Billy's free hand closed around the hilt of the knife he'd stashed in his boot. The serenity of decision enveloped him like a cool blanket. He couldn't help Abigail, but he could kill this fuck.

The corded muscle of Billy's neck flexed and bunched as he leaned up so far the sharp edge of the knife pressed into his skin. "You'll have to be satisfied with just me."

He twisted the blade up to Jacobs' gut and watched his eyes widen with fear. They both knew that a deep wound there might would fester and rot within the day if he didn't bleed out immediately. Jacobs gritted his teeth and pushed with one last burst of effort against Billy's single-arm defense.

Billy sent up one final thought for Abigail, for his lost family, for the life he never had. He had a sudden thought for the Walrus: Gates laughing, sharing a swaying table shoulder to shoulder with his brothers, he could even smell the ocean. He shoved the blade up into flesh and waited.

Blood splattered from Jacobs' head in an explosion of matter and gore. Billy stared dumbly at the corpse on top of him. His ears rang from a thunderingly close pistol shot. He could even smell the gunpowder. Billy was not dead. He never felt the knife slip into his neck. Now he only felt the weight on top of him, suddenly so much lighter without the muscle and bone forcing itself down.

He turned his face until he saw Abigail, swaying, battered, and brandishing the pistol he'd discarded before the fight.

Confusion and disbelief warred in his mind until he shoved Jacobs aside and stood. He stumbled over to her and reached a muddied, bloody hand toward her face, but stopped short. She was as pale as a ghost and far too beaten to be an angel sent to usher him into Hell.

"You're alive." His voice cracked.

The pistol slipped from her grasp to the moist forest floor with a thunk. Abigail nodded and replied softly, "Yes."

He dropped his forehead to hers and breathed her in. He felt her answering, shuddering breath. He could smell her sweat and tears. Billy fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his face against her breast. Her breath was as ragged as his own. She wrapped her arms around his head and neck, pulling him closer. He squeezed her a little tighter, but the pressure on her ribs made her yelp. Billy immediately jerked back, searching for the source of her injury. He wouldn't find it unless he undressed her.

The pain ebbed and flowed like a living thing visible throughout her whole body. "He beat me."

Billy cast a scowl over his shoulder at the dead Marine, considering the ways he'd like to kill the bastard all over again, though the mangled mess pistol shot had made of his head was good. He reached for her again then hesitated, searching for a place she hadn't been bruised. When his hands brushed her hips, she nodded and he pulled her in close again, taking comfort in her warmth, her familiar shape, alive and breathing in his arms. "I knew he killed you."

"No." Abigail ran her fingers through his hair, which could only be a remembered action from their many interludes together. "He wanted to. He was going to, but at the last second he had a change of heart."

Her voice was raspy, no doubt a side effect of the bruising already mottling her neck. Tears welled in his eyes, so unfamiliar he almost didn't recognize them. "I was too late. I thought you were dead. You would have died."

"I didn't." She must have been in extraordinary pain, though she was as poised as a dame in a ballroom. Not that he'd ever been in a ballroom. She was in shock; Billy had seen it plenty of times. The break down would come later and he had to get her off her feet.

"I'm sorry." Billy leaned back to look her fully in the eyes, desperate to give voice to every thought racing in his head, but for once at a loss for words. "I'm so sorry," he whispered.

She stared at him for a long while, long enough to let Billy know he was a great distance from forgiveness. Abigail finally nodded and Billy let out a slow breath through his nostrils. Standing was more difficult than he anticipated; the wound in his leg and the others on his torso were finally flaring to life as his adrenaline faded.

Billy eyed the horse he'd rode here, lazily gnawing at a patch of tall grass. The beast had probably been doing that since the moment Billy dismounted. "Do you think you can-"

"I'll manage," Abigail answered.

"Right," Billy swallowed the lump in his throat.

She pursed her lips at his injured leg. "Will you at least wrap that?"

The cravat around Jacobs' neck would do, though it was probably filthy with sweat and grime before he'd been shot. Bending to fetch it proved to be more difficult than he anticipated. His breath expelled in a sharp hiss between his teeth at the spike of pain in his leg. He gritted his teeth and prepared to try again when a light touch settled on his arm and the fabric of heavy petticoats brushed his boots.

Abigail bent and retrieved the cloth without flinching away from the gore. His heart clenched over all she had been through. She should be horrified over all this, instead she was bandaging him up while he stood there like an idiot.

He bit back a wince as she tightened the fabric and stepped away, eyes cast downward.

"It won't take long," he said. "I can't leave you out here alone."

She didn't look up, she just walked back to the horse, absently stroking its neck. With a muttered curse, Billy followed and helped her onto the bare-backed horse as gently as possible. He still heard her muffled sob in spite of her effort to hide it.

He mounted the horse and let out a relieved sigh when she leaned back into his chest, in part because he knew she didn't need further strain, and in larger part that she at least trusted him with this. Billy put a soft but steadying hand on her waist and squeezed his calves until the horse picked up what he hoped was a gentle trot. They didn't have time to go any slower.

If they were going to leave tonight, they would need money. A lot of money.


	15. Chapter 15

When Abigail was a girl, she dreamed so many things. They were the small, simple dreams of a girl who expected a life in which she would never speak too loudly nor make any decisions beyond how to decorate her husband's home and what sort of fabric would befit her station without tacky ostentation.

She hoped she'd marry well; a man who would care for her and of whom she could be proud. She hoped to have children; boys to carry on her husband's name and girls she could usher into womanhood. She would never send her children to foster with relatives or connections, no matter what social benefit they might earn. The man she dreamed to marry would never even suggest such a thing.

Her future would contain endless books, exercise in a well-manicured garden, dinner parties, and altogether very little. Abigail believed she would find fulfillment in motherhood, but she now knew she would have never understood exactly how easy her life was.

That life - the possibility written into her future from the day she was born - was ripped from her in pieces until all that remained was a sad, lonely young woman sitting in a window in Philadelphia waiting for her life to start again.

After her abduction, her dreams took a hard shift. In many ways, her desires became so much simpler than they ever had been, yet those simple things became all the more difficult to attain. Abigail wanted to survive, a challenge that seemed to continuously reassert itself in her life through increasingly more elaborate obstacles. She wanted love and family. She thought she'd found that, in such a strange form, but she'd never known what it was to recover from familial betrayal. Her father was carted off to the stocks before she could face him again. She couldn't rightly say if she would have ever forgiven her father. His crimes were so vast and about so much more than her own feelings.

Forgiveness would weigh heavily on her mind in the coming days, she was sure, but tonight was about living. Life had come screaming back into her world after so many months in limbo.

A bullet whistled past her head so close she felt the puff of air as it flew by. She stumbled, but Billy's iron grip kept her upright and moving forward.

"Almost there," he said, his breath hot on her ear. With one hand on her arm and the other on her lower back, he left her no choice but to continue running when all she wanted was to collapse. And hide. But Billy hadn't steered her wrong yet. She could trust him with this, at least.

Bodies ran around them in all directions, little more than shadows silhouetted by flame. Dark lumps dotted the ground, but Billy kept her moving too fast to consider them. That was for the best. If she saw their faces, men and women she likely knew, maybe even taught and worked alongside, she might shut down completely.

Just when she was sure they would make it to wherever Billy was leading without serious obstacle, Billy slowed to avoid a group of men darting across their path and a hand shot out from the ground to tug at Abigail's skirts.

Abigail screamed and leapt back, sheltering behind Billy's large frame, but it was only Hannah. Hannah. One of those wretched lumps in the dirt was Hannah, bloody and sooty. Abigail shoved past Billy, ignoring the pain in her ribs to drop to her knees and take Hannah's hand. There was no strength in Hannah's grip, yet she managed a watery smile.

There had to be something Abigail could say, but words failed her. What little grip Hannah had slackened completely and the light faded from her eyes. Abigail felt Hannah's death like another physical blow on her already battered body. The battle sounds faded until all she heard was her own blood rushing in her ears. The earth shifted and she went weightless. A comforting and familiar scent managed to block out the stench of smoke.

She felt more than heard Billy's voice, rumbling from his chest to her ear. Somehow, that didn't seem right. The last thing she remembered with clarity was sinking to her knees and taking someone's hand. She didn't know why she should be in Billy's arms right then, though it did feel nice. His words still came to her in distant bits and pieces, like a sheaf of paper tossed in the wind.

"…it hurts. I'm sorry, sweetheart…have to keep moving."

Had she fainted? She didn't think so, though her mind was as hazy as the air. This wouldn't do at all.

"I can walk." Her voice was shamefully weak. She pushed uselessly against his chest and tried again, digging in for a voice that matched her intentions. "Put me down, I can walk."

He didn't believe her, if he even heard her, and instead kept his brisk pace, ducking, pulling up short, and darting forward again as their path to the stables grew ever more precarious.

Her feet didn't touch the ground again until they made it to the barn, which was miraculously not in flames. Albert, Marcus, and a cohort of women were loading two wagons and preparing the jittery horses for an escape, while Ned, Kanuna, the blacksmith and a collection of other men, convicts and slaves alike, guarded the wide open entrances to the building. Nestled in a far corner of the camp, it hadn't attracted the attention of the raiders. Yet.

Albert caught sight of her and, judging by his wrought expression, she knew she must look terrible. He took three steps toward her before Billy's back blocked her vision.

Billy snatched Albert by the collar and shook the smaller man. Abigail grabbed his arm, but it was like trying to stop a hurricane with her bare hands. Rage boiled out of Billy until he was red in the face and trembling. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a strangled, "YOU," over and over in a roar.

Panic set in quickly as Abigail's own screams for him to stop it went unheeded, even Ned and the blacksmith proved ineffectual at separating Billy from his quarry. Finally, Abigail wrapped herself around Albert's side and forced her face into Billy's sight.

The clouds of fury cleared from his eyes, replaced by shame. He dropped his grip on Albert so abruptly, Albert would have fallen if not for Abigail's steadying grip.

Abigail turned away from Billy to run a comforting hand down Albert's face and usher him back toward the wagons. She wasn't ready to think about the man standing behind her. This side of him was all new to her and she didn't know what to make of it. Yes, she'd seen him defending her. She knew he was a pirate. However, after having read his arrest warrant, seeing him nearly unleash that violence on a man she loved was another matter.

More disturbing than Billy's violence was her own. For the second time since her arrival at Camp Jackson, Abigail had unabashedly and unhesitatingly chosen to end a man's life. For all her scattered introspection, she couldn't muster guilt or even a fraction of the shame Billy just displayed.

What sort of choices would she have made had she been in his shoes throughout the uprising? Perhaps, we're more alike than I realized, she thought. Abigail looked back at him, only to say what? She didn't know and it didn't matter. He strode toward the main doors with Ned, a rifle in his hands and purpose in his step.

* * *

Ned shoved a rifle into Billy's chest so hard Billy stumbled back a step. "If you're quite done, we have work to do."

Billy didn't miss the venom in his voice, nor did he blame him.

If the look on Abigail's face as he prepared to pummel her husband into a bloody sack hadn't been enough to jar him, the rifle in his hands returned him to the world of the living, though only by a thread. The battle had exploded between his flight after Abigail and their return.

Billy had never been one to succumb to the sickness that followed men who saw war. He didn't suffer nightmares, nor had he ever frozen up in a fight, lost in memories of fights long over. But since their return to camp, Flint's voice dogged his every step. He heard screams that weren't there, just echoes of the men he killed on Skeleton Island. He towed poor Abigail behind him with the brutal tenacity of the line foreman, certain that if he so much as paused, they wouldn't just be killed, James Flint himself would materialize to do it. His hands still shook.

Perhaps it was feeling the weight of a rifle after so many years or the soul-shattering terror of believing Abigail dead. Some piece of his tenuous self control had fractured in the woods, leaving him trapped between past and present. The last time he'd held such a weapon, it was against men he'd called his brothers.

He shook his head to clear away images from that battle, the scent of the ocean mingling with flames, and the overpowering rage blinding him to reason.

A figure materialized through the shadows, running at them and cackling like a loon. Billy brought the rifle to his shoulder and squeezed the trigger before he was conscious of the decision to act. The haze didn't clear with the bullet smoke, it only grew louder, thrumming in his ears in a rhythmic tattoo. The shouts from the other men guarding the barn faded into a distant echo, drowned out by roaring cannon fire and the sea closing in around him. It filled his eyes, his nose, his lungs, crushing him like an avenging beast sent to punish him for his sins, sins he would never fully atone for. His knee exploded with fresh pain despite being ages older than the fresh wound at his hip.

More men converged having finally realized there was a whole cohort of prey they hadn't victimized yet. Ned was shouting and Kanuna loosed arrows. Marcus abandoned what he was doing to pick up a weapon. The yelling grew thunderous but miles away.

The rifle left his hands. He didn't fight it or wonder why. To his surprise, the rifle returned to his hands. He frowned down at it, bringing it slowly into focus, then blinked up to see Abigail watching him cautiously, a ramrod in one hand and cartridge bag in the other. Abigail stood before him, a figurehead come to life.

"You know how to load a rifle?" Billy's own voice almost startled him in its clarity.

Abigail's lips quirked. "I told you Mr. Gates taught me."

The world came screaming back to life. He was far inland and good people depended on his help to survive the night. Abigail stood before him as if she wasn't the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on, as if their world wasn't in flames, as if she hadn't just told him one of the most outlandish things he'd ever heard. As if she hadn't just brought him back to life.

With one tiny, secret smile, she rushed off to reload discarded weapons. A few heads turned, but everyone was too busy to marvel at the sight of the reverend's wife ramming cartridges down pistol and rifle barrels. A mixture of convicts and slaves rapidly loaded the wagons and tacked the horses that weren't already hitched. The plan they'd carefully worked out pushed itself to the forefront of Billy's mind.

They needed to get out of this barn and off on their respective routes. Between himself, Marcus, and Ned, they could easily cut their own path and be gone. The raiders didn't seem intent on chasing anyone beyond the camp, just demolishing this outpost of English colonization in the name of their fallen countrymen. But leaving that way would do nothing for the others. The other group didn't have as many skilled fighters and the rest, the people running and screaming on their own through Jackson, were defenseless. The Marines and soldiers were scattered and leaderless, rendered useless in this state.

Billy took action. His lips formed the high, clear note of a boatswain's whistle, drawing the attention of the few Marines he could see.

"What are you doing?" Swann asked.

He took a pistol Abigail handed him and tucked it into his belt. "If the Marines don't mount some kind of defense, this is going to be a massacre."

Heedless of the oncoming assault, Billy stepped out from the barn door and whistled again, pleasantly surprised to hear more than one whistled response from different directions. His memories of how Marines operated in combat were limited to his time aboard Naval vessels. The tactics weren't exactly the same on land, but whatever was happening right now was only going to get more people killed.

Shots rang out as a handful of Marines found their way to the barn, but they were still scattered and casting uncertain looks between themselves and Billy.

"On me, form square!" Swann rushed past and planted himself front and center between the barn door and the oncoming raiding party.

The Marines didn't hesitate for him. More appeared from the shadows, rushing to create the formation Swann ordered. There weren't enough of them, there had hardly been enough to begin with. At least they had bayonets fixed to their muskets, as Billy would be dead and buried before he let Abigail continue reloading for anyone beyond the relative safety of the barn.

Billy assessed the formation - it wasn't something he'd ever seen, but that was to be expected. A true square in this scenario, though, was just wasting bodies.

"You," he pointed to the whopping three Marines composing the aft of the formation, uselessly pointed toward the barn door, "fall in, port and starboard."

They shifted amongst themselves, still unsure why a convict was giving them orders. Billy expanded his chest and barked from the deepest corners of his diaphragm, "MOVE."

They scattered to follow his orders and he joined Swann at the front of the formation. His blood hummed with a long forgotten excitement. That energy reflected back at him from Swann's eyes.

Billy brought his rifle to his shoulder with the serenity of knowing they were going to win.

* * *

They were ready. Abigail stood near the back of the wagon that would be her home for the next month or so as they journeyed back east. There wasn't room for her to sit, between their meager supplies, a seat for Kanuna, and Auba and Mimba's three children.

Lizzie sat in the other wagon and Abigail knew without needing to be told that they wouldn't be traveling the same direction.

"You won't come with us?" Abigail reached up and took her hand.

Lizzie offered her a sad smile. "Don't worry about me. I'm a survivor. You know, I've never had a fresh start before."

Resignation settled into Abigail's heart like a lead weight. Once Lizzie set her mind to something, there would be no deterring her. Lizzie tightened her grip and her eyes filled with tears, a sight so unfamiliar it would have knocked Abigail off her feet if their day hadn't already been filled with shocks. Lizzie sniffed and wiped her cheeks with her other hand. "I'll miss you. I'm sorry I-"

"You've been a wonderful friend," Abigail squeezed her hand, her own voice cracking with emotion. "I couldn't ask for better."

For the first time, Lizzie looked genuinely torn. She even let tears fall. Lizzie nodded and sniffed again, swallowing her tears. "Thank you, Abigail." Her eyes flickered to the battle out front. She nodded once, then again and licked her lips. The burning camp left the air unbearably dry. It was nearly impossible to suppress the desire to run screaming out the back, particularly when a stray musket ball found its way through the thin wooden walls of the barn, but they all stayed. There was a plan, after all.

Lizzie leaned down and cupped her cheek. "You take care of yourself. Promise me."

It was impossible that Abigail had more tears left to cry, yet she felt them springing to her eyes regardless. "I promise. You do the same."

"I promise."

They had only known each other a short time, of which so much had been hostile, but Abigail felt like part of her heart would be leaving with Lizzie, regardless.

It was, all things considered, a break from the emotional toll of watching the pitched battle occurring just beyond the barn doors. Ned's voice rose up and the Marines let out whoops before breaking their careful formation. The men in the barn took this as a signal. One minute, she and Lizzie held hands, the next the blacksmith slapped the reins and their cart jerked forward into the night. Abigail jumped back, clutched her hand to her breast, and watched her friend disappear.

Billy jogged back into the barn while Ned lead the Marines deeper into the camp, now chasing the remaining raiders. Albert took his seat in the wagon with Kanuna. He might insist on his spryness, and even demonstrated such by tracking the raiders before they made it to Jackson, but Kanuna still verged on ancient. The long journey to their destination, wherever that was, didn't need to be any harder than it already promised to be. Albert assured her their plan for Abigail's travel revolved around Billy and a horse and she could only imagine how that suggestion had been tabled and by whom.

No matter the reason, she found herself mounted behind Billy on the aforementioned horse, with only a little discomfort rearing its head as he helped her up.

"You alright?" Sweat and soot smeared his skin and his voice came out in a rasp, from the smoke and yelling in battle. She nodded. "You trust me?" She nodded again.

The corners of Billy's eyes wrinkled and he watched her carefully, as if she might change her mind. When she didn't, he took up the reins and squeezed his calves against the horse's belly. They took off, out of the barn, out of Camp Jackson, at a gallop.

* * *

Restlessness plagued Abigail, growing worse each day they waited for the others to arrive. Tonight marked the third night since arriving at the meeting spot and she didn't know if she could survive another not knowing Albert's fate. Billy continuously assured her that the wagon would move much slower than two people on horseback, but how much slower? At what point did their absence mean something terrible had befallen them? Had they even made it out of Jackson? Had she simply abandoned her husband when he must be needing her?

The waterfalls were exactly as Marcus described to Billy, a wonder in and of itself since Abigail didn't know when Marcus could have seen this place. In one of their many quiet moments on the trail, Billy explained the different ways slaves shared information with each other. He showed her a smooth stone carved with intricate patterns. To the untrained eye, they were just circles and lines, nothing more than tribal artwork.

"It's a map," he said. "This is the river we've been following east and here," he tapped where one of the concentric circles met another, "is where we're going. This is the only major river this far north in the territory that flows west to east. Where it turns south, we will find two tall waterfalls and a series of small caves. That is where we will join with everyone else."

The little den they'd made in one of those caves was warm enough with the fire they took turns tending and shielded them from the endless rain. How many runaway slaves had stayed at this very spot, before ensuring that the knowledge was shared far and wide for any who might have need of it? Anything and everything their white masters didn't understand, or care to acknowledge, could be useful tools to help each other escape to freedom, from their braided hair to carved knickknack's no white person would look twice at.

Abigail marveled at how ingenious it all was and that Marcus would share any part of it with them. It seemed to her that Marcus was taking a monumental risk.

She leaned against the cave wall, just close enough to the mouth to feel a light patter from the rain outside. Billy sat with this back against the wall, periodically stirring the low flames. It wasn't the first time the sight of him there reminded her of a similar night so long ago it may as well have been a lifetime. Even his beard was growing steadily back, though it wasn't nearly as thick as it had been. When they bedded down together to sleep, it was without shame.

"Why is Marcus helping us?" Abigail tugged at the ends of her shawl, wringing it in her hands.

"What do you mean?" Billy looked up from the fire.

"It's just that if I were a runaway slave, the last people I'd be sharing my secrets with would be English."

Billy set the stick down and stretched to his full height. He produced the small burlap sack he'd retrieved from the woods before their departure and, for the first time, opened it to show her its contents.

The largest single collection of black pearls, rubies, emeralds, and gold coins she'd ever seen sparkled up at her. She gasped and started, then came back in for a closer look. It really was a bag of treasure.

"You paid him?"

A frown pulled at his lips as he closed and returned the bag to its place in the saddlebags. "Not exactly. I've been sharing this with him. Every time they planned an escape, I gave him a portion so the runaways had a better chance."

"You've been sharing this with him?" She didn't mean to sound incredulous, but it was hard to imagine anyone simply giving away so much as a single black pearl. "How did you even get this here? Weren't you brought here as a prisoner?"

Billy kept his face a cool mask. "Long story. And yes, I, dastardly, murderous pirate that I am, have been sharing my loot. Before you ask, no, I did not cut a deal with him to take me to his runaway colony before I offered him shares."

He picked up his rifle and shouldered past her, ever careful to not actually push her, into the rain.

"Where are you going?"

"To hunt. We're going to run out of rations at this rate." His words were clipped.

"But it's raining!"

"It's been raining for three days." His head dropped and he turned back to her. "I have to do something."

"Fine." Abigail pulled her shawl up over her head, not that it would do much to protect her from the downpour. "I'll go with you."

He gestured toward their sanctuary with the long weapon. "I can't hunt with you tagging along. Besides, you're liable to get sick-"

"And so are you!" Her voice rose. A chill already ran over her skin in time with the pelting rain. "We both know you're not going to catch anything in this weather, so please just come back inside."

He waffled from foot to foot, eyes searching the wet earth for answers he wasn't going to find. She took his hand and pulled him back into their dry shelter.

This time, Billy took a seat on the opposite side of the fire, staring into it for a long time before finally speaking. "Once we get to the colony, we won't be able to leave. I think it would be best if you and Albert and Swann went your own way before we get there."

A knife sank deep into Abigail's chest. She gasped at the pain of it, all her breath leaving her body at once. "What?"

His gaze lifted to hers in resignation. "I know things have changed, now that you know what I am. I don't have anywhere else to go, but there's no reason you need to be trapped there with me."

She recoiled as if struck. Words failed her. Anything she might have said died in her throat.

"I know what I am," he continued. "I know what I did and what I did by lying to you about it. I know this," he gestured between them, "is untenable."

"Oh you know that, do you?" Her hands found her hips, gripped into painfully tight fists. "So that's it, then? You know what's best and what I want and you release me? How bloody generous of you."

"Abigail-"

"Don't." She held out a silencing hand. "Don't you dare. Do you honestly think I am such a child that you have to make this decision for me? That I don't know my own mind?"

"That's not it."

"Then what?" Her voice edged on shrill, wrung tight with the desire to scream and slap him.

He dropped his head into his hands and took a deep breath. "I am a monster, Abigail. I am the thing mothers warn their children about, lest they take to the sea and I find them. Fuck, I'm a monster to other pirates. They've turned Flint into their hero, Silver their king, and I am the villain of the villains. You're unsure right now because all this is new to you and your life has been flipped on its head since you found out, but I promise you, there will come a day when you realize you cannot stand the sight of me. I couldn't live with myself if that day didn't come until you were already at the colony and trapped with me."

In that moment, Abigail saw Billy as if for the first time. She saw a strong, capable man struck so low he couldn't see his way out. When she took a step around the fire toward him, he flinched and her heart broke for him. She dropped to her knees at his side and took his face in her hands. "You did monstrous things, but Billy," she held fast as he tried to pull away, "you are not a monster. Do you hear me?"

He didn't respond, but he didn't try to pull away again, even as she sidled closer and pressed her forehead against his. "I've known monsters. You know I have. Do you believe after what I have survived, I would let something as silly as your pretty face blind me to another monster?"

Billy rewarded her with a single chuckle. "Pretty? Really?"

"Don't change the subject." She scolded him but couldn't hide her smile. "Tell me something. If you could do any of it over again, would you?"

"No." He shook is head. "There's quite a few things I'd do differently."

"Well," Abigail sat back on her heels, "there's you answer. I may not know everything about you, but I know your heart."

It had been far too long since they last kissed, so she tilted her lips up to his and he met her without hesitation. Kissing Billy was like coming home. Everything in her body relaxed and came alive at once. That he thought she'd be better off without him drove her to near madness. She didn't need him, she knew herself well enough to know that, but having him with her on this journey bolstered her.

The end was so near. No more running, no more fighting for a place in the world. Marcus was leading them somewhere they could simply be.

"Please," she settled next to him and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, "don't talk like that again."

He pressed his lips against her temple and his strong hand rubbed a hypnotically soothing pattern from her shoulder down her arm. "I couldn't walk away if I wanted to."

"Good." Her eyes flickered to the mouth of the cave to see the rain had stopped. She took a deep breath and inhaled the sweet scent of wet earth. All the plants and animals would be coming to life soon. As if on cue, a bird chirped through the woods.

Billy turned his attention toward the sound, frowning in concentration. "Did you hear that?"

"The bird?"

It rang out again, the same three notes closer this time. Billy grinned and returned the call. "They made it. They're here."


	16. Chapter 16

Despite the protesting blisters on his heels, Albert picked up his pace until he fell in step with Kanuna.

He'd lost count of the days and weeks they'd been on the road. By his measure, they should be nearly to the Carolina coast by now, but that was just silliness on his part. He cast a glance over his shoulder. Abigail only seemed to fully sleep when she could rest against Billy's chest. Billy's pallor looked a little grayer with each passing day. It was a wonder the man could sit a horse at all, let alone keep Abigail tucked safely between his arms while she slept. For the most part, Billy hid the full effects of his wound, but he couldn't hide the sheen of sweat on his brow, nor could he stop Abigail and Mimba from changing his dressing every night, fussing all the while about the inflammation that wouldn't recede.

Everyone knew the wound had festered. Kanuna kept a ready supply of poultice for him, but kept his own thoughts about Billy's prognosis to himself. Albert didn't have to be a worldly genius to know that wasn't good.

"I want to thank you," he began quietly, "for what you're doing for them. And what you did for me."

Kanuna gave no indication he heard Albert speak. His eyes remained watchful on the mud path and the woods around them. The silence stretched so long, Albert's shoulders slumped in defeat. He had transgressed against a great many people in his journey to self discovery, not the least of whom was Kanuna. Just as he prepared to shorten his stride and leave him in peace, Kanuna spoke.

"I was _a ni sa ho ni_ clan. We made good medicine."

Albert's lips twitched with a smile. He fought to remain as cool as Kanuna. "Yes, I have firsthand experience with that myself."

When the silence descended again, it was no longer fraught with Albert's nerves. A hawk drifted lazily overhead, barely visible through the dense trees. Kanuna's eyes followed its path through the sky.

"Will you return to your family, your clan, then? Once we reach our destination?"

This time, Kanuna did respond. His eyes fell from the sky back to the darkened path ahead and he exhaled slowly. "I have not been welcome with my people in many years."

A familiar pang echoed in Albert's breast. There would be no returning to his own family now, regardless of how they fled Camp Jackson. Even if he and Abigail could muster a plausible explanation, even if they veered off their current course and returned to civilization to face the Crown and pay their monumental debt, Albert didn't want to. He didn't want to live in shame and that was the only way his family knew how to live.

He had a new family now.

"May I ask why?" He folded his hands behind his back and kept his eyes forward.

Kanuna mulled over the question and again, Albert wondered if he'd overstepped his bounds.

"I wanted to marry the wrong woman."

For all the differences he once perceived between their cultures, Albert knew this one well. His mind conjured an image of Ned behind them driving the wagon, then of Abigail who so stoutly refused to marry, her only remaining family was prepared to cast her off. It seemed marriage was one topic neither of their world's was prepared to bend.

"They let me stay," Kanuna went on, "for a long time, but as an outcast. When they moved on, I did not see a reason to follow."

"Were your hopes so very terrible?"

"Yes. In our culture, it is wrong to marry someone of your own tribe. To you, it would be like marrying your sister."

Albert started and his head flew of its own accord to Kanuna.

"She was not my sister." Kanuna's lips formed a sly smile.

Albert let out an embarrassed chuckle. "I'm sorry, that was foolish of me."

"Yes, it was."

It took Albert a beat to see the humor in Kanuna's expression, then they shared a quiet laugh.

"It would seem, then, we are on a similar journey."

"Yes, we are."

* * *

Mornings on the trail were the worst, worse even than the hard, long days slogging through muck, swarming insects, half starved from limited food, parched, only sipping on their water supply. Auba and Mimba's children took the lion's share of food and water by an unspoken agreement of their party. After Ned took grievously ill drinking from a stream, they made the difficult choice to rely only on the water stores they'd packed from Jackson. After two days of sickness, Ned recovered, but their wariness remained.

Billy found that he no longer thought of Ned as Lieutenant Swann, Marine officer and grudging ally. He had the wry thought more than once that Ned would make a fine pirate. He certainly would have found compatriots among the men and women shunned by English society.

Yes, mornings were torture. When they bedded down for the night and he tugged Abigail into his arms, both of them heedless of the sweltering humidity, they could almost pretend everything was alright. Sleep was mostly peaceful, even as they rotated through watches, guarding against animals and the possibility they might run across other people. In sleep, he could dream that it was just the two of them and he could wake up in a bed, sharing leisurely kisses before setting about the day. Their worries were mundane - his fishing haul wasn't as strong as they'd hoped, the roof needed new shingles, the cat keeps digging up their garden, that sort of thing.

Then morning came and his body clenched with tension and the sickness slowly, painfully killing him. This morning was like so many before. He heard the muted activity of the others as the last watch roused them. His arms tightened around Abigail's small frame. The bones of her shoulders and ribs jutted out, despite their previously healthy flesh and muscle. His own clothing hung loose, held up now only by his belt. Moisture coated his front and the back of Abigail's battered dress. It had been a cool night. His head pounded in time with the throbbing at his hip.

He gave her thin arm a squeeze before pushing himself up. Abigail made a disgruntled noise and turned onto her back, blinking up at him. She shared his distaste for these mornings. Her braid had some loose during the night, haloing her dirt smudged face with matted locks.

"It's time," he said.

Abigail sighed and sat up to fix her braid. Generally, he enjoyed the quiet intimacy of watching her fix her hair, but he was too ragged. Instead, he made his way to re-saddle his horse and share a quiet word with Marcus.

"How much further?"

Marcus helped Nathaniel, Auba's youngest, into the wagon. "Not more than two weeks, I think. It will be rough going, though, once we reach the swamp, perhaps even by tomorrow night."

Their destination was a maroon colony buried deep in the midst of the largest swamp in the colonies, secret and safe so long as the English settlers considered the land untenable. Nearly a million acres of water-logged land Anglos saw no value in, so they ignored it. A million, Billy's mind still boggled at the number. That was a number so large it could easily hide a whole colony. Or more.

"It's strange," Albert said, stepping into the wagon and helping Auba's other son, Jacob, up with him, "so many weeks on this trail, yet we haven't seen anyone."

Ned groaned. "Now you've done it."

"Done what?" Albert turned in bewilderment.

Billy huffed, the closest he could come to a chuckle. "Sailors and Marines are notoriously superstitious. You've jinxed us. We'll have company before the day is out."

Albert balked. "Is this true?"

Even Marcus nodded for the truth of it.

Billy sighed and double checked his weapons. Ned followed suit, donning his saber and bringing his rifle with him to the wagon's seat.

It was already a long fucking day.

* * *

They came across a tiny settlement late that very afternoon. The smell of roasting meat reached them first, eliciting a series of growling stomachs. The children seemed to be drooling, suddenly active and boisterous at the thought they might get a decent meal for the first time in weeks. Auba and Mimba shared the long suffering look of women exhausted by telling their children they couldn't have things.

A flutter of nervous energy flitted across Abigail's skin. They were moments away from facing people, people who could have heard anything by now about Camp Jackson, people with their own motivations and desires.

"I'm sure they don't know anything," she said under her breath. Auba heard and cocked a dark eyebrow at her. She was right. It was naive to believe such.

The trees around them gradually cleared until they reached a series of rough cabins scattered throughout sprawling acres of farmland. Abigail frowned at her filthy dress, but there was nothing she could do about it now. She jerked a well-worn straw hat onto her head, hiding her hair, and tucked her old fichu around her neckline. At least that was clean.

"Everyone, remember what we talked about." Billy's voice cut through the tense silence. Auba and Mimba pulled their children to their seats and hissed whispered warnings to remain silent.

Ned sat up a little straighter and buttoned his borrowed coat. No one needed to know he was a deserter out here. Albert pulled on his black hat and tightened his white tie. Worn out and just as dirty as the rest of them, it would still help to be recognizable as a reverend.

A woman in a homespun dress ducked out of her house with a baby on her hip. Her face drew tight as she took in their group. Before she could open her mouth to call out, a man followed her out the door and ushered her back inside. He picked up a rifle before stepping off his ramshackle porch. It was nearly impossible to determine his age as the sun and a lifetime of hard work weathered his skin into leather.

Billy pushed his horse forward, between the man and their group. "Good afternoon."

"We don't get too many travelers heading west," he said in a long drawl. "Where you folks coming from?"

"The Georgia interior, heading back to Virginia. We haven't seen a settlement in weeks."

The man spit into the dirt. "Some soldiers came by. You heard about that penal colony that went up?"

"A great tragedy!" Albert stepped into view and thrust his hand out to the other man. "Reverend Johanssen, a pleasure to meet you, Sir."

He didn't take Albert's hand or return the greeting, so Albert kept on talking as though blithely unaware of the slight. "We crossed paths with some fur traders just last week who shared the news. Truly heartbreaking, all those people."

"Criminals," the man grumbled.

Unfazed, Albert perked up. "Indeed. You see, I and my dear cousin," he gestured to Abigail, who responded with a polite smile, "and her ever patient husband, Mr. Green here, have been traveling throughout the colonies to share the word of God with all the weary settlers too far from proper civilization to hear the Word. Tell me, friend, would you and your people care for a sermon?"

The man's eyes narrowed, then he directed his next statement to Billy. "Mr. Green," he drug out the name, "they said I should be on the lookout for convicts and slaves, maybe even a preacher. And a woman, among others."

Abigail's stomach clenched, but Billy shrugged. "Sounds like most traveling groups, but we'll keep an eye out."

They eyed each other warily, like two dogs sniffing at a single plate of food, neither willing to make the first move.

"Perhaps," Albert said, "you could spare some food or drink with weary travelers. I would be delighted to discuss this passage I've been reading-"

"Sorry, Reverend," the man cut him off. His dirt-caked hands flexed on the rifle belying his casual posture. "I won't have blacks or that," he nodded at Kanuna, "on my property. I think it'd be best if you all moved on. "

The muscles in Billy's shoulders bunched and bristled. Abigail's own hackles rose, but Kanuna gave her the tiniest head shake. She remained where she sat next to Mimba and Auba. Neither woman visibly reacted, but tension roiled around the wagon like a storm-churned sea.

Albert sputtered and Billy raised a silencing hand. "That's fine. We have a lot of ground to cover today."

No one else appeared to challenge their hasty departure, though Abigail caught sight of a few women and children in distant doorways. Once clear of the settlement, Billy turned in his saddle, eyes alight with urgency. "Take only what you can carry, we're leaving the wagon."

Auba, Mimba, and Marcus set to it without question, while Abigail and Albert shared confusion. Ned caught Albert struggling and said, "He knew. It's just a matter of time before he gathers a party and they come for us."

They set off again, faster than they could have with the wagon, but in Abigail's heart, she knew it wouldn't be enough.

* * *

Days later, Abigail studied Billy from her seat on the horse she shared with Mimba. He couldn't even pretend he wasn't sick anymore. His body seemed to lean into itself around his wounded hip. Kanuna had taken over cleaning and changing his dressing, grimmer by the day. Her hands itched to see the wound for herself, to know with her own eyes the extent of the damage.

Billy tugged the reins until his horse stopped. Foamy sweat coated all the horses and their nostrils flared with great heaving breaths. They had asked so much of these animals on their journey. Hounds barked in the distance, closer than ever, an arrhythmic foreboding tattoo chasing them through the Carolina woods.

"We can't outrun them," Billy answered the unspoken questions on everyone's faces.

"We have no choice." Ned bent at the waist to catch his breath. "We keep moving or we die."

"If they stay on us like this, they could follow us all the way to the colony," Billy said. "If they don't catch us first."

Marcus said, "I'll do it. I'll go."

Confusion washed over Abigail, but before she could ask, Mimba said, "No, you're the only one who knows the way."

"He's not the only one." Billy locked eyes with Abigail with such resignation, she felt grief coiling in her belly before she understood it.

"You're sick," Marcus said.

"Exactly." Billy sat up straighter in his saddle. "If I get any worse, I won't be able to take everyone the rest of the way."

Everyone spoke at once. Ned wasn't confident Billy's scent alone would draw the dogs away. Auba volunteered to go with him. That caused even more arguing.

Billy dismounted and fished through Abigail and Albert's bags, ignoring the onslaught of arguing.

"Where are you going?" Abigail's voice barely rose above a whisper.

He wouldn't meet her eyes. "If I can keep them delayed long enough, or off the trail entirely, you'll all have a better chance."

"No." Abigail recoiled. "You're hurt, you can barely ride."

"Marcus and Kanuna can get you to the colony safely."

"I don't understand." Abigail's throat constricted. "There must be another way."

Billy added a tattered old shirt to the pile of clothes and fabric he amassed. _To throw off the dogs_ , Abigail realized. Billy finally stalled and lifted his gaze to hers. "I'm sorry. We've got to get them off our trail."

"Then we can split up. I'll go with you."

Billy's eyes filled with sadness. His beard had been growing steadily for weeks, but neither the facial hair nor the layer of grime from their journey could mask his sallow pallor.

 _He won't make it._

He cupped the back of her head and brushed his thumb over her cheek. "I showed you the map Marcus gave me. You know I'll catch up."

Panic rose until it gripped her by the throat. "No! You can't go. You cannot leave me!"

Abigail didn't notice that all movement and conversation stopped around her; she only saw Billy. How often had she told herself they'd have all the time in the world to work things out when they got to the colony? What a fool she'd been.

"I'll be alright." Billy turned his back on her and pulled himself back on his horse.

"No." Abigail pushed off the horse and stood on shaky legs before Billy's mount, grabbing one of the reins. She knew she was acting like a child, but she couldn't stop herself. She didn't want to. She wanted to scream and stamp her feet and tear her hair and rip those reins out of Billy's hands, anything to make him stay.

Billy slid off his horse with a muffled grunt of pain. He smoothed his hands over her hair and her shoulders. "Sweetheart, someone has to lead them away or it won't be just us who pay. The whole colony depends on us not being followed."

"Why does it have to be you?" She could barely form the words. "We just found each other, Billy. We found…" Her voice broke.

"I know." He pulled her into his arms and she clung to him, soaking in his strength and love. "No matter what, I'll find you again."

"Someone else can go. Not you." She inhaled his scent, breathing him into her lungs.

Billy leaned back to take her face in his hands again. "It has to be me, Abigail. You know that."

"You don't have to do this." Abigail covered one of his hands in her own. He was always so warm, but now his skin burned hot with fever. "I know you feel guilty, but please don't do this."

The corners of his eyes pulled into an emotion she couldn't name. "Look for me to the north. I promise I will find you."

He pressed his lips to Abigail's forehead - _It's not enough_ \- then got back on his horse without waiting for her to reply.

While they'd shared their goodbye, Ned grabbed a small satchel of supplies and waited for Billy to mount. He and Billy stared at each other for a long moment beside the horse before Billy nodded and pulled himself back into the saddle. Ned gripped his forearm and swung up behind him. Albert watched in stoic silence, his lips drawn tight.

Abigail moved to Albert's side, then buried her face in his long soiled coat, unable to bear watching them ride away.

* * *

The next two weeks passed in a haze of tears and the horrors of a true American swamp. Whatever Billy and Ned had done worked. Though they weren't plagued by a troop of backwoods settlers bent on collecting their bounty, the endless swamp provided a rich tapestry of obstacles, each more deadly than the last.

It was the wetness that dragged them all down. Whenever possible, they avoided the often waist-deep murky icy water, rife with vicious snakes and alligators, but even on dry land they were never truly dry. Abigail had been shocked by the humidity of Camp Jackson, but in retrospect it didn't hold a candle to the soupy air here. Her dress was sodden with sweat and swamp water and no matter what she did, it never dried. She was forever draped in moist, moldering fabric. She itched all over her entire body and almost everyone now had a rather disgusting case of foot rot. Marcus got bit by an unruly turtle that did not wish to be the children's dinner, Auba suffered a sprained ankle, and the boys had gone listless, frighteningly silent. _Children shouldn't be silent_ , Abigail thought every time she looked at them.

They limped along in spite of their injuries and exhaustion. Every time Abigail reached to scratch at one of her numerous bites, Albert would appear at her side to take her hand and they would walk on together in silence, unable to speak about their shared loss nor the fact that Billy and Ned hadn't caught up with them yet. Every time Abigail opened her mouth to ask Albert's thoughts on the subject, she clamped it shut again. There was only one outcome to this conversation: it did not bode well that two men on horseback hadn't managed to overtake their lumbering progress.

Giving voice to these thoughts would only make them real, so Abigail wisely kept her mouth shut and Albert did the same.

At the end of two weeks slogging along, a trio of gangly black boys appeared from the brush with rifles and wary eyes. Marcus held out his map - a carved stone to match the one he'd given Billy - and just like that, their journey was over.

The boys lead them through the brambles, vines, and a network of fallen trees, until a great colony materialized out of the wetlands. Abigail gasped and tightened her grip on Albert's hand as she absorbed the sights and sounds and smells before them. A network of cabins and circular buildings sat on earthen islands just above the water line and on stilts connected by wooden paths that dipped and rose between the multilevel constructions.

Even more dazzling was the array of people. There must have been hundreds of them, wearing both English fashion and their native garb. Her hand fluttered to her mouth in astonishment as a pair of women strode by wearing nothing more than brightly colored skirts and herding a large sow. Some of the men were even less clothed, wearing only a leather thong and beaded jewelry.

"Oh my," Albert said. "Oh my. Oh-"

Kanuna clapped him once on the back and suppressed a chuckle. "Don't worry, you will get used to it."

All eyes turned to the newcomers and happy shouts rose up through the colony. Men and women she recognized from Jackson rushed out, embracing Marcus, Auba, and Mimba. The boys darted off, giddy and laughing as they reunited with friends. For the first time in months, their traveling party came alive.

"It's the reverend and missus!" a voice called out. People who had been shying away from Abigail and Albert surged forward to extend their own welcome, though it all happened so fast and in such a din, Abigail would later have to ask everyone to repeat their names.

She curtsied before the king and queen of the colony - her first encounter with royalty! - before being shuffled off to the house she and Albert would share until - if - Billy and Ned returned. They dined at a boisterous celebration and Abigail could only sit in silent wonder as she saw a whole new side to the black people she'd live amongst for so long. Free of their shackles and the lash, the subdued behavior of Camp Jackson was a thing of the past. In its place was laughter, music, dancing. The children played, a thing she'd never seen before with the black families she knew.

They taught her how to say "hello" and a few common phrases in their pidgin. The children taught her _mancala_ and their mothers invited her to their own board game - _yoté_ \- but she was loathe to gamble, so she just watched the lightning-fast moves and captures, still totally bewildered by how the game was won and lost.

Then, as quickly as the excitement came, the weight of Billy and Ned's absence settled on her chest. It clamped around her heart like a vice.

Abigail found a little stretch of sand at the northernmost edge of the colony and sat, just out of reach of any hungry alligators, as the sun rose. It was quiet here and she enjoyed listening to the swamp's chorus of birds and insects and frogs. The effervescent happiness of the community didn't press so hard on her here, nor did she feel the necessity to smile and play another round of mancala.

Here she could wait. Billy said to look for him to the north and that's what she intended to do.

She would wait for Billy.

* * *

The first time he fell, he got back up. The threat of being torn apart by dogs before facing the noose had the effect on a man.

He did so again and again until his world went black and he drifted into a blessed sleep where he didn't need to run anymore.

Like every night he wasn't with her, Billy dreamed of Abigail. She pressed cool towels to burning skin and gave him sips of water. She assured him it was alright to rest, that the hunting party had given up and he'd done his job. Everyone was safe.

His body periodically saw fit to rouse itself, pulling him from pleasant memories of her gentle hands and the prettiest brown eyes he'd ever seen. In those moments, he saw an old woman, gray and hunched, but kind. Sometimes he saw Ned. He laughed at the sight of a Royal Marine bent over him, face wrought with worry. In all his life, he never thought he'd see a Marine distressed on his behalf. Now that's comedy. Take that, Shakespeare.

Then, when he had nothing else to give, his body would let go and he'd drift back into the dream.

In the dream, Abigail was waiting for him.


	17. Chapter 17

Abigail traced mindless patterns in the hard-packed, moist sand. For two weeks she waited at this spot from sunup to sundown. She memorized every mangrove and cypress on this shore and the children had long since stopped inviting her to play.

It started under the pretense of needing rest and quiet, wrapped in the certainty that Billy and Ned would be along shortly. She couldn't lie to herself anymore.

Life at the colony moved on, glaring in its vibrancy, so bright she couldn't look directly at it. Marcus, Auba, Mimba, and Kanuna fell into step here seamlessly. They were all free now. Their burdens had lifted while hers felt heavier than ever.

Surely, giving up her beach side vigil meant giving up on Billy's return. She wasn't ready for that. She might never be ready for that.

 _I am back exactly where I started_ , she thought. _I am still sitting on that window seat, waiting for someone to start my life for me._

The thought rankled. Then it burned. She fed the flames, hungry for any feeling other than despair.

She popped to her feet and paced tight, furious circles. That thought mirrored her footsteps in her mind, turning over again and again until it fomented into something alive and real.

Sunset was still an hour or so away, but she couldn't take it anymore. She turned on her heel and marched back into the colony, to the tiny house she shared with Albert.

Albert jumped when she pushed the door open with a bang.

"I refuse to be that pathetic creature!"

He blinked at her and pushed his glasses up his nose. "Pardon?"

His skin was wan from his own silent vigil right here in the house. He seldom left anymore, except to get food for them. When she left before dawn and returned in the evenings, she always found him sitting at their little dining table, scowling and muttering over his Bible.

Abigail slid into one of the two seats, opposite Albert. "When we met, I was nothing." She raised a hand to stop the interruption already brewing on his lips. "No, listen to me. I let myself be shuffled off onto one distant relation after another. I let everyone decide how I was to live my life."

"But you didn't let them simply marry you off-"

"A meager exercise of free will, which, I might add, I was preparing to abandon the very day we were introduced. No, I mean the entire trajectory of my life. After everything we've been through, I refuse to still be that little girl."

Albert continued to look perplexed by this outburst. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

She reached forward and took his hand. "If we, both of us, stay in limbo waiting for our loves to come back and start our lives for us, we are going to waste away and never get back out."

He tugged his hand away and refocused his attention on his Bible and scattered notes. "I'm not in limbo, I'm working."

Sadness filled her. "When they get here, don't you think Ned will need you? After all they must have gone through?"

The quill stilled in his hand, so Abigail continued pushing.

"Don't you want to show him how strong you are?"

His fingers tightened on the pen, leaving a growing blot on the paper beneath. "I don't know how."

Abigail pushed back from the table and stood before him with a proffered hand. "We start by joining this community. No more hiding, no more waiting." When he didn't move, she added quietly, "It doesn't mean we're giving up on them. It means we're preparing for their arrival."

Albert closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened his watery eyes again, he set his quill down, closed his Bible, and took Abigail's hand. "All right. I'll try."

* * *

"We're going."

"No, we're not."

Billy snarled under his breath. He had taken to pacing the crone's house like a caged animal until she and Ned forced him back to at least sitting. For a pint-sized woman of an indeterminate age anywhere from 60 to 100, Mrs. Kirsop packed a wallop.

"I'm not sick anymore and the wound has closed. I've waited long enough." _She's waited long enough._

Ned threw up his hands and sent a helpless look to Mrs. Kirsop. To Billy's surprise, instead of snapping at him to sit down, she studied him, puffing on her tobacco pipe.

"He's healthy enough to be wearing holes in my floor, with his big boots." She scowled at him, but in their short tenure here, Billy knew it was mostly bluster. Mostly. "I didn't want to be feeding you anymore, anyway. Even sick, the man eats like a horse."

Ned groaned and rubbed his temples. Billy was ready to whoop and run out the door.

Mrs. Kirsop had been a godsend, taking them in when Billy's fever rendered him nearly comatose. She kept details about her life to herself, but it seemed she'd lived alone in the Carolina woods most of her life. While he was unconscious, she'd re-opened his wound and set to work brutally flushing and packing it. Over and over she did this while the fever waged a war of its own. Ned confessed that neither of them expected him to live, until, one day, he did.

His recovery was slow. And painful. His entire body ached with every movement and he could only maintain consciousness a few minutes at a time, until minutes became hours, then finally days. The slice on his hip was healing into a healthy pink scar, one to join a legion of brothers crisscrossing his flesh. It still hurt, tender to the touch and sore down to the bone, but he could walk with little more of a limp than he had already thanks to his knee.

Mrs. Kirsop would watch him hobbling around the land outside, muttering that he had an unnatural desire to live. That was true enough. For the first time in so many years, he had something to live for and could look at himself in the mirror without soul-crushing shame. He wanted to face Abigail as this man, to stand in her presence knowing he had done the right thing for once. He could be worthy of her now.

The hunting party had followed him and Ned for days before giving up the chase. Enough time for them to lose the main party's trail.

He did it. _They_ did it.

Ned grumbled in the corner as he packed their meager possessions. Mrs. Kirsop wrapped a few loaves of bread and cheese, generous to a fault despite all outward appearances.

Warmth flooded Billy's chest, both for his pending reunion with Abigail and the two other people in the room. It had been a lifetime since he last felt he could rely on someone else. They had taken care of him, no questions asked. The smart thing to do would have been for Ned to leave him behind and Mrs. Kirsop to lock her door against two strange men in the night.

Kindness is simple and complicated at the same time. It's not always the easy or smart thing to do. It's not the path to winning an unwinnable war. But those battles were no longer his concern. Perhaps they never were, not in truth.

"Are you ready or are you just going to stand in the doorway?" Ned asked. He shoved a burlap sack into Billy's arms and shouldered past him.

Billy turned to Mrs. Kirsop. "I can't thank you enough."

"Then don't." She took a long pull of her pipe, a sight Billy still hadn't quite wrapped his mind around. "Don't let all my hard work go to waste by dying."

"I'll do my best." Billy huffed a low laugh.

He stepped out the door, but not before he heard Mrs. Kirsop shooing him away.

Ned looked him up and down. "Are you absolutely sure? We can wait, give you more time to-"

"I've had enough time." Billy slung the bag over his shoulder. "Let's go."

* * *

Abigail took her usual seat at the shore's edge, awaiting sunset. The great expanse of swamp looked more beautiful these days than it had before. She no longer saw the shadows and oppressive wall of trees, nor the lurking threats. Instead she saw life. Life had beauty and darkness, that's what makes it real and natural. She wasn't keen on any encounters with a water moccasin, but she did enjoy catching glimpses of their serpentine paths through the murky water.

She and Albert now enjoyed sunsets here, a compromise to ease them both out of the holes they'd dug for themselves.

"So," Albert settled next to her, "did you finish your mittens?"

She fished into her pocket and produced the heavy duty, fur-lined mittens Kanuna coached her on. After a few false starts, she finally had a serviceable pair. "All they need now is a wax sealant to keep moisture out."

Albert's whole face brightened. "Lovely! Seeing how people dress here, I imagine you shall be quite popular this winter."

They were both easing into the immodesty, but Abigail held onto a childlike fascination for the sheer variety of colors and styles. The English empire stole people from up and down the African coast, but never before had she the opportunity to see for herself how those different peoples expressed themselves.

Auba was working on creating one of the saucer-like necklaces crafted from rings and rings of brightly colored beads. She promised to teach Abigail once she was done with her own, lamenting the years without practice her enslavement forced upon her.

Abigail's thoughts drifted relentlessly to Billy every time she observed something new here. She thought of that night on the mizzen and his promises of freedom for all men. She wondered if it would give him hope, a balm to his soul, to see that promise fulfilled despite their failed war, the people he turned his back on flourished. Perhaps it would only add more weight to his shoulders, confirming the futility of the cause he dedicated his life to. The pirates' war was shortsighted and gave little thought to the people who needed it the most. Realizing one's own shortcomings on a matter that important was a profound blow.

It hardly mattered now.

What did matter was putting one foot in front of the other and driving on. It was one thing to let herself wallow and drift into a sort of purgatory. It was something else entirely to sit back and watch Albert do so, to watch him drowning and do nothing. He wasn't drowning anymore. Instead, light color filled his cheeks and his eyes shined with warmth. He produced his Bible and opened it to the Book of Micah.

"I was reading this today." He handed the worn volume to her and tapped on the passage.

 _Who is a God like unto thee, that pardoneth iniquity, and passeth by the transgression of the remnant of his heritage? he retaineth not his anger for ever, because he delighteth in mercy._

 _He will turn again, he will have compassion upon us; he will subdue our iniquities; and thou wilt cast all their sins into the depths of the sea._

"I've been re-reading my Dr. Whitby. I read it in seminary, of course, but we all soundly rejected his notions."

"Dr. Whitby?" Abigail brushed her fingers over the passage. Warmth blossomed at the uplifting words. For so long, Albert's study centered on such darkness, a doom for those with the misfortune to not be chosen.

Albert took the Bible back. "He is considered something of a heretic by the Reformation. He wrote a rather scathing discourse on the five points of our beliefs. As I read this passage, it reminded me of how he wrote of the basic contradiction of believing in a perfect and forgiving God, yet believing that same God would not love all of His creation."

"That's lovely, Albert, truly." She squeezed his hand. "I wish we could get a copy of his treatise here."

"Perhaps one day." His words held hope, an emotion that had remained elusive for too long.

They settled into companionable silence, enjoying the play of light and colors as the setting sun danced through the trees to the water below. They could do this. They could build a life here. It wasn't what either of them had intended, but was it not what both of them had wanted? Abigail had her freedom, her debts were a thing of the past, and Albert found peace with himself.

She opened her mouth to express this to Albert, but something in the distance caught her eye. A flash of green light, discordant with the sun's rays, sparked in the distance. Her heart leapt to her throat and a clammy sweat broke out on her palms. She closed her eyes and took a steadying breath. It couldn't be. It was impossible. Her dreams of reuniting with Billy were just that: dreams. Abigail would never survive if her entire body lit to life at the slightest hint someone was coming across the water.

When she opened her eyes again, nothing changed. It was a trick of the light and her over-active imagination.

The light flashed again, now more gold than green, and brighter. _Closer._

"Abigail, are you-"

"Did you see that?" Her voice came out tinny and fraught with emotion.

"I don't know what-"

"There!" She pointed when it flashed yet again, followed by a three-note whistle. They blew this tune when approaching the colony to alert the guards. She stood sharply, vibrating with fresh energy.

Someone was coming by boat. Her brain insisted, screamed at her, that it could be anyone, but her heart drowned the noise out. Her heart knew who was in the boat, only barely discernible through the tangle of trees and vines at this distance.

Albert stood and adjusted his glasses, squinting hard as if he could will them into clear vision. He frowned and took her hand. "It's probably one of our traders returning with fresh supplies."

"No." Abigail shook her head. "It's them. I know it."

But she didn't know it. Her mind and heart warred with each other and her pulse hammered in her ears. She wanted to prepare herself for the inevitability that it wasn't Billy and Ned to lessen the heartbreak sure to follow this episode. Yet her heart wouldn't listen to reason. Her heart needed this to be real.

People gathered on the beach with them, ready to welcome whomever was in the boat home. All Abigail's attention was on the slowly advancing boat. It was too bloody slow, having to navigate around the sea of mangroves and detritus in the water.

She danced from foot to foot. Her skin tingled with a nervous awareness. Doubt gave way to the utterly irrational certainty that she knew exactly who was in that small rowboat.

As it got closer, she could make out a figure sitting high in the bow of the boat. He was large, white, and something on his wrist glinted against the sunlight, casting brief flashes of golden light now that they were closer. It was the stone she'd found and placed on the leather wrist cuff she'd made for him.

With a strangled cry, she rushed into the water. Voices shouted at her to stop, calling dire warnings about snakes and the dangers of tripping over felled trees submerged out of sight.

None of that mattered as she picked up her skirts best she could and forced her way through the icy, waist-deep water. It was slow going and she immediately lost both shoes to the silty mud, but she kept pushing.

Not so far off anymore, Billy and Ned launched themselves off the boat and made much faster progress her direction than she made in theirs. Ned was somehow faster on his feet in the water, barreling past her with eyes only for the man on the beach.

One second they were too far apart, then the next she was crushed into Billy's chest, lifted off her feet as Billy rained kisses everywhere he could reach.

"You're alive, you're alive, you're alive," Abigail chanted over and over.

They both shook with joyous laughter and tears. Billy scooped an arm under her legs, lifting her out of the water. "I told you I'd find you."

Their breath mingled, breathing each other in. Her hands traced his face, his shoulders, anything to reaffirm that he was real and here and Billy. She kissed his cheeks, his jaw, his temple as he carried her back to the boat. They didn't kiss properly until they were both aboard, too enveloped with each other to notice the laughing boy pushing the pole, guiding the craft back to shore.

Only in stepping off the boat did they part long enough for Abigail to see Albert and Ned embracing, kissing on the shore with a small crowd of locals clapping, laughing, soaking up the merriment even if they didn't know the stories behind it. Fresh, happy tears filled Abigail's eyes at the unrestrained sight.

There was no one they needed to hide from here. All of them were free now.

* * *

"And what can you do for this community?"

The maroon king was a small man, dressed in a long, short sleeved tunic of bright geometric patterns with an equally colorful round hat on his bare head. Marcus sat along the edge of the round wooden hut on one of the many woven mats next to another ten or so prominent men.

Billy kept his eyes on the king - Jabbar - but watched for Marcus's quiet nod to answer.

"I'm a sailor, by trade, but I can-"

"You are a pirate."

He knew this was coming, had known before he ever left Camp Jackson. His knee and hip throbbed in tune with each other from his kneeling position on the dirt floor and sweat dotted his hairline. Facing these maroons was always going to be a risk, but England was a death sentence.

"Yes, Sir."

Jabbar sat back in his raised chair. "And when you stole from the English, what did you do with my people?"

Billy held the man's gaze. "Some we freed. Some stayed on as crew. Most we sold."

There it was. No lies, no excuses.

Jabbar reached into a pouch on his belt and produced a handful of familiar gems. "I hear tell you had a change of heart during your imprisonment. Stand."

It took more effort than he cared to admit, but Billy pushed to his feet, heart pounding as he mentally worked through all the possible outcomes of this scenario.

"I will not allow a pirate who traded in the flesh of my people live among us."

For the first time since entering the king's quarters, Billy's eyes fell. _Abigail…_

"But," Jabbar continued, "the Spanish have a generous offer for escaped slaves and freedmen in their Florida colony. You can captain a ship?"

The breath caught in Billy's lungs. "Yes-yes," he said quickly.

"Good." Jabbar tucked the gems back into the pouch. "We have a small sloop at the mouth of the river and men to help sail. There are a number of families who wish to leave this swamp, get some land of their own. You will take them there."

Billy's mind struggled to keep up with this change of course, landing squarely where it always did: "What about Abi-Mrs. Locke? And the others?"

"You can take whoever you want, as long as they want to leave. Then you will never return."

The rest of the counsel went by in a haze as the other men gathered around to discuss their plans-who would sail, possible routes, cargo, forged papers, all of it. Billy circled around and around between elation and fear. Would Abigail even want to go? What of Ned and Albert? Sailing out of a Carolina bay with a ship full of escaped slaves all the way to the Florida coast was dangerous. He didn't want Abigail on such a risky venture, but he couldn't leave her behind. It would be dangerous with an experienced crew, but he would have no way of knowing just how experienced his volunteer sailors actually were until they set sail.

Then what were a pack of Anglos supposed to do in a Spanish colony? They could be marked as spies or criminals to be ransomed back to England. Billy hardly spoke the language.

He was still busy wrapping himself in knots over it when he stepped back into the sun. Abigail paced back and forth on the path ahead of him, wringing her hands and looking as overwrought as he felt. When she saw him, she darted his direction then pulled up short at his own worried expression.

"Well?" She continued wringing her hands and shifting from foot to foot when he finally met her.

"I can't stay here."

Billy only realized his mistake when she blanched and swayed, tottering between fainting and shrieking, but unable to do either.

He caught her upper arms. "No! No, it's fine. We can stay together, just not here."

Abigail's body remained taught with tension. "Then where will we go?"

Billy allowed himself to enjoy that for a moment. _Where will_ we _go_. No hesitation. They stayed together. Her expression softened from panic to wariness and Billy realized he was grinning.

"C'mon." He offered her his arm. "Let's find the others and I'll explain everything."

* * *

"Are you absolutely, positively, inescapably certain you want to do this?"

Since Abigail was in the other room with a gaggle of women fixing her hair and dress, Albert didn't have to hide his smile as he went over his notes again.

"My dear, I've never been more certain of anything in my entire life."

The tip of Ned's boot rubbed against his calf under the table. Albert didn't have to bother hiding his blush, though a lifetime of training urged him to do so. Instead he met Ned's bright eyes and didn't look away. His cheeks hurt from smiling, a pain he'd never known was possible in his otherwise dour life.

Freedom, he discovered, meant something different to everyone. He thought he'd found it in Abigail and the relative isolation of Jackson, but like so many of God's blessings, she was his guide, not his answer.

For Albert, freedom was as simple as holding Ned's hand without thought to who might see them. It was to lay his head at night next to the man he loved without shame or fear. It was no longer having to live as a person he wasn't.

The chattering in the other room stopped, so Albert turned to find Abigail in the doorway. She looked resplendent.

In a week, they'd managed to craft a new dress - one of several, just to get her out of her ragged wardrobe - in a bright, spring green with blue and red bead work in swirling patterns over a dark blue stomacher and petticoats. By society standards, it was likely still plain if brightly colored. The women had piled her hair in a nest of dark curls with a few pieces loose by her neck.

Ned abruptly rose to his feet and Albert followed, but neither had words.

Abigail blushed under their scrutiny and ran her hands down her skirts. "Is it too much? I haven't been dressed like this in so long, I feel a bit ridiculous. I still can't believe they gave me so much fabric, it seems a terrible waste."

"Abigail," Albert took her hands, surprising her when she was so busy fussing with her gown she hadn't noticed his approach, "you look beautiful. Even lovelier than the first time I married you."

Her face fell. "I know I keep asking you this, but-"

"I have never been more sure of anything in my life."

They had discussed it at length, every night until this very morning.

Ned slid a corsage of wildflowers over her wrist, tying it with simple twine. "I have checked three different newspapers that came in with the trades. The Reverend and Mrs. Locke are considered quite dead. I believe that makes you an unmarried woman."

"I believe it makes me a ghost." Abigail's lips pressed flat. "I think we all know that's not quite how this works."

Ned stepped back with a small nod and crossed into the other room to afford them a moment of privacy.

Albert removed his glasses and polished the lenses with the tail of his freshly cleaned coat.

"I understand that our identities may be moot, but it doesn't change that we were married in the Church and I do believe God is aware that neither of us is dead." Abigail started to pace. She paced every time they had this talk.

He had to capture her shoulders to stop her. "Yes, just as I believe he is also aware that we have never actually lived as man and wife."

Abigail fell silent.

"I want to thank you," he said, "for your continued insistence that our marriage was true, but I think we are both well past the need for that lie."

"No more lies."

"None." He kissed her cheek. "This is my gift to you."

Ned coughed at the doorway. It was time.

"Are you sure I can't talk you into coming with us?"

The question was directed to both of them, but Albert shook his head. "Oh, no. No more lies, right? We don't have to lie about who we are here."

No one looked at them twice in their new home. In fact, Ned and Albert weren't even unique in their relationship. Others were in equally non-traditional relationships. That wouldn't be the case in a Spanish colony, where Catholics were no more welcoming than Christians.

The maroon colony would be his home with Ned and he couldn't think of anywhere he'd rather be.

Ned offered his arm to Abigail. "Are you ready?"

"Quite."

* * *

Billy slipped the simple gold band onto her finger.

"With this ring, I thee wed. With my body, I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods, I thee endow. In the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost, amen."

Abigail hardly heard any other part of the ceremony. She didn't even hear herself make her own vows. Her world narrowed until there was only Billy, everything else fading into pleasant background noise and pretty lights.

The corners of Billy's eyes crinkled and his hands tightened over hers. They couldn't stop staring at each other throughout the blessedly short ceremony, neither quite sure this was really happening.

She barely heard anything Albert said until they got to the vows. In fact, she'd lost track of everything but Billy since entering the chapel. He looked so handsome in a borrowed jacket and trousers, she could almost imagine him in a proper dining room. The new shirt she'd painstakingly sewn for him fit him well, always a good thing in her opinion.

They weren't in a proper dining room. They were getting married.

"Then, before God and the witnesses gathered here, I now pronounce you man and wife." Albert clasped his hands over his Bible. "You may now-"

Abigail popped up on her toes and pulled Billy's face down to hers for a kiss before Albert could finish. Billy smiled into the kiss and wrapped one arm around her waist and the other cupped the nape of her neck. As far as she could tell, it was the most sublimely perfect kiss they'd ever shared.

As it turned out, weddings in the colony were a particularly joyous occasion, unlike anything Abigail ever experienced. When she wed Albert, they enjoyed a perfunctory ceremony, then sedate dinner with the Milton family and nothing more. If she hadn't been a pariah, it might have at least been a happier event, but she couldn't remember attending any society weddings that were much different.

The entire colony came out to celebrate and congratulate the newly-minted Mr. and Mrs. Gates. Bonfires went up throughout the village center and delicious food seemed to rain down from the heavens. They played drums and sang in their native tongues, music that matched the pounding in Abigail's breast. Men and women in their traditional dress danced to the rhythm, moving their bodies in ways that would scandalize her former peers, but Abigail couldn't stop watching. It was an expression of elation that should never be tempered of silenced by western notions of propriety and shame. Her limbs itched to join them, even if she could only perform a pale imitation of the dance.

She took carefully small sips of the strong beverage in her cup, just enough to feel a pleasant buzzing under her skin, but not so much to become drunk. The night called to mind the shipboard party on the _Siren_ , only now Billy sat at her side, laughing and actually enjoying himself.

In some ways the most obvious ways, Billy had aged since that night. Lines crinkled at the corners of his mouth and eyes. It was difficult to discern in his ashy blond hair, but whenever he went a few days without shaving, she could spot gray hairs working their way into his beard. He still bore a slight limp from the wound to his knee, though it was more pronounced with the wound to his hip. His body showed more scars and tattoos marking the passage of time in a rough life.

Otherwise, everything about him was younger than she'd ever known. His entire being lightened without the weight of his crew, his war, his imprisonment, and his guilt. He smiled freely in a way that drew the attention of anyone lucky enough to catch it. The serious man, so often lost in thought and tactical calculation, was gone. This Billy shone brighter and exuded hope and winked at her.

Abigail didn't realize she'd been staring at him until the wink. She blushed and took another sip of her drink.

"Everything all right?" His question spoke of concern, but his eyes held a mischievous twinkle.

"Yes." She laced their hands together and kissed his powerful shoulder. "I'm just very happy."

He looped his arm around her waist and tugged her closer, placing a kiss of his own against her temple. "I'm happy, too."

"Did you ever imagine we'd have this?"

His body shook with a bark of laughter. "Abigail, I didn't think I'd live out the year when we first met. But when Gates put that idea in my head, I tore myself apart trying to work it out."

"Whatever happened," she tilted her head to look at him, something she'd never quite been able to stop doing, "I'm glad we're here now."

Their lips met again in another slow, lingering kiss, unashamed of their affection in public. They only broke apart when the others at their bonfire erupted into hooting and cheering.

Billy reached for her left hand and ran his thumb over the ring. "Do you like this?"

It was as simple a ring as could be made, but she loved it with every fiber of her soul. "Very much, yes."

His lips quirked. "I made it from a few pieces of eight."

She held it up to the light to inspect it with fresh eyes. "A true pirate's wedding band."

The music and laughter continued around them, but Billy grew pensive.

"Are you sure about all this?" Billy asked.

The question mirrored her own repeated discussions with Albert so closely, Abigail fought to suppress a giggle. Understanding the earnestness of Billy's concerns, she couldn't bear him to think she mocked him.

"Whatever happens from here on out," she set her cup down to join their hands again, "I'm with you. I don't care where we are or what we're doing, as long as we're together."

"I love you." His lips brushed her knuckles.

"And I love you."

Nearby, Albert and Ned whispered and grinned in their direction. She would miss Albert terribly, but there was peace in their choices. She could no more tear herself from Billy than ask Albert and Ned to surrender the freedom of living outside the bounds of larger society.

This was the answer they'd all been searching for, even if it meant parting. Albert sent her a soft, knowing smile.

Perfection was a foolish dream. Nothing is ever perfect. The paths they had chosen, though, were close to perfect.

Their futures stood to be happy, peaceful, and free.

Abigail couldn't ask for more.


	18. Chapter 18

Abigail's blood-curdling screaming managed to distract Billy from her unnaturally strong, painfully tight grip on his hand.

It had started simply, beautifully, the way these things were supposed to go, or so they thought. Neither he nor Abigail exactly had any experience with starting a family. They certainly had no knowledge about childbirth, but Abigail reassured him, "Women have been doing this since the dawn of time. It's going to be alright."

"I still think we should get a midwife," Billy insisted.

Abigail's faced turned a little sad. "No one trusts us. They barely trust you to make their trades. I'd rather not trouble anyone. I promise it will be fine."

Fine my ass, Billy thought. This had been going on since yesterday morning without the first sign of progress. Just intervals of Abigail's labored breathing broken up by the wailing that threatened to break him in two. Her face was pale and drenched in sweat, eyes sunken with exhaustion, her whole body drenched in sweat.

They both knew something was terribly wrong. Billy thought he might burst from the impotent frustration of not having the first clue what he should do. He could captain a bloody ship, built anything he put his mind to - including their small house and the new collection of baby furniture Abigail hoped for - but this? For the first time in his life, he felt utterly useless. He was out of his depth.

When her grip slackened and her body sagged back into the mattress, he brushed a cool cloth over her forehead and neck, then bent to check on her bleeding. So far, it was light enough to not cause alarm.

He lifted the sheet and the sight that greeted him chilled him to the bone. The slow trickle of blood had turned into a deluge, slowly gathering between her legs like a deep wound. With great care, he schooled his expression and set the sheet back down.

"Sweetheart," he leaned over her to dab at her heated skin again, "I'm going to the village to get help."

Her little brow furrowed. "No one will come. The women won't even look at me."

It was true enough, but he was past caring.

"I know. I know they don't trust us, but they're not monsters." He handed her the large wooden dowel from the side table. "I'll take a horse and won't be gone long. Bite down on this if another one happens."

He didn't know what the spasms were that came on seemingly from nowhere to wrench her body in the worst pain he'd ever seen.

The light of understanding filled her eyes. She paled further, but clamped her mouth shut and nodded. My brave girl, he thought. Billy pressed a kiss to her forward and offered another assurance that he would be back in minutes, before jogging out of the house and sprinting to his horse.

Normally, he and Abigail loved their little slice of Heaven on the Florida gulf. She especially delighted in the warm, crystal clear blue and green water, full of brightly colored curious fish to nibble on her toes. Tonight, he cursed it. The residents' fear of English interlopers had them living far down the beach from the village proper and the deep white sand slowed the horse when Billy needed it to gallop.

After an interminable run, Billy pulled his horse up short and dismounted at the entrance to the village. Spanish, native Seminoles, and freedmen all called it home, with a mix of brightly colored Spanish-style square homes and more traditional huts. Bright torches lined the single public road wide enough for carts and bazaars. Only a few men sat outside, enjoying cigars and a drink while their women were inside.

"¡Socorro!" he called in his very best boatswain's voice. His Spanish was shit from years of non-use, but he could get at least a few coherent words out. Even his meager crew, mostly the men he'd brought down to Florida in the first place, spoke a pidgin he better followed than true Spanish.

Conversation halted and the men stood to their feet, watching him with the same cautious regard they always bestowed upon him when he brought in fresh goods from his latest trade run.

" _¡Socorro!_ " he tried again and paused, searching for the right words. " _¡Esposa...dar a luz...mucho sangrante!_ "

Help me! My wife is birthing, much blood. Damned close enough to get the men scattering into their homes and whistling to other residents.

A Spanish woman bustled out of her house with a large canvas bag packed with what he presumed to be supplies. She and her husband rattled off rapid-fire Spanish he couldn't catch until the woman set a hand on his chest and looked up at him with large, serious eyes.

" _¿Hemorragia?_ "

He could gather what that word meant. " _¡Sí! Sí, mucho, muy…_ "

She turned back to her husband and gave him an order he followed instantly. More villagers poured out of their homes, women and men alike, dragging out their sleepy mounts.

" _Te vayas._ " When he didn't move, she smacked his chest and waved him back the way he came. " _¡Te vayas! ¡Rápido!_ "

The others already mounted their horses and her husband reappeared with a horse of their own. Billy took the hint and sprinted back to his own, kicking her into a punishing pace on the sand.

Some beat him to the house while others trailed behind. Billy didn't slow down to take in their numbers or even their faces, opting instead to charge into the house. His heart lurched at the sight of Abigail lying still and quiet on the bed, but she turned her head as a veritable parade of Spanish and freedwomen hustled after him, their husbands presumably outside.

The same woman he'd first spoken with stopped him before he could reach Abigail's side.

" _Te vayas._ " She made more shooing motions.

"No." Billy surged past her. Her tiny frame - shorter and more frail than Abigail's - posed no great imposition to him.

Abigail reached for him, wan and limp from the blood steadily pooling onto the mattress. "What's happening?"

Her eyes bore a confused glaze, as though she couldn't quite make out the activity in their bedroom.

"They're here to help." Billy smoothed his hand across her forehead and brushed her wilted hair off her face.

The woman continued clucking her disapproval, but set to work at the foot of the bed while issuing orders to the other women. Pots clanged in the kitchen while a woman ran outside with a bucket and the others began tearing through their chests and drawers for sheets, towels, even blankets.

Time sped up and slowed simultaneously with all his focus on his wife. The din of voices and activity faded into a distant buzz. He focused all his energy on urging her to live. She had to live. They didn't survive all they had just for it to end like this, finally free, finally together enjoying a quiet life on the water, finally starting a family. It simply couldn't end now. Billy refused. He flatly denied any possibility that didn't involve the three of them - three - living long, healthy, happy lives together.

Abigail's body locked up in another wrenching spasm, howling in pain.

Billy whirled on the woman studying Abigail's situation with tightly pressed lips and eyes that revealed nothing. "Well? What's going on?"

She didn't have to speak English to know what he must be asking. In the candlelight, Billy saw the deep wrinkles in her tanned skin, the streaks of gray in her thick, dark bun. He didn't even know her name and she may be the person to save Abigail's life.

She kept her expression carefully neutral as she said in a low, clear voice, " _Tengo que dar vuelta al bebé._ "

The only word he caught was "baby." At his confusion, she sighed and cast her eyes around the room for an answer. She held up her hands. Her fingers were already stained with blood. With her hands about the width of a newborn babe, she gestured over Abigail's stomach, perpendicular to the line of her body, then made a turning gesture.

"What is she saying?" Abigail didn't have the strength to sit up and follow what was happening beyond her swollen belly.

Billy's heart plummeted all the way to his feet. He actually felt dizzy, a first that didn't involve a head wound or dehydration. "Um, she has to turn the baby. It's the wrong way."

Abigail's eyes went round and she tried to sit up, but Billy eased her back down on the mattress. "Save your strength. Once she does this, the baby will come and this will be over." He hoped. He believed. He needed it to be so.

" _Esta te hará daño._ " Another woman brought in a steaming pot of water and the woman, perhaps the most experienced midwife of the group, pulled a pair of what appeared to be gently rounded brass tongs. She set them in the bucket and produced a salve of some kind.

Billy presented the dowel to Abigail. "She says this is going to hurt. Bite down. I'm going to be here the whole time."

With his nod, the midwife began. Billy kept all his attention on Abigail as the women set to work, in part to continue comforting her through the ordeal, but also because he couldn't bear to watch whatever they were about to do to Abigail's already traumatized body.

He knew the moment they started, as Abigail's eyes rolled back in her head and her teeth clamped down so hard on the towel, he worried she would either bite right through it or lose a tooth. Her grip on his hand tightened again, then it slackened and her breath came back in great gasps, the dowel dropping from her lips.

" _Bien, bien,_ " the midwife sagged in relief. " _Empujar._ "

Abigail looked to him and it pained him to answer her unspoken question. "Alright, sweetheart, it's time for you push again."

"No, no." She shook her head. "Billy, I can't, I can't do it."

He offered her a grim smile and kissed the back of her hand. "Yes, you can. You can do anything, I've seen it. You survived Lowe. You survived Jackson and that fuckface Captain, hell, you survived me. You need to be strong now."

She screwed her face up and nodded.

The pushing was agonizing, yet the women's words grew optimistic, even cheerful, happily encouraging her with nothing but the tone of their voices and wide smiles.

With one final burst of screaming effort, a new sound joined the commotion: the wail of a newborn baby.

Billy didn't know where to look. He needed to see the baby, to hold it in his arms and know it was alright, but Abigail went ashen and collapsed onto the mattress. With the amount of blood she lost, she was still in danger.

One of the midwife's helpers approached his side with a carefully wrapped bundle. " _Es una niña,_ " she said.

Abigail's eyes fluttered open, but she struggled to keep them that way. "Girl?"

"Yes," Billy took his daughter in his arms for the first time and leaned so Abigail could see her, "it's a girl, sweetheart."

A smile ghosted her lips before she fell into a deep sleep, where she stayed for the next two days while her body recovered, waking only long enough for a few swallows of broth as directed by Paola.

Paola, the midwife, became a fixture in their home, overseeing Abigail's recovery and the infant's nursing on goat milk with military efficiency. She showed Billy how to swaddle, hold, and burp his daughter.

In quiet times sitting next to their cleaned bed, Billy could marvel at the tiny creation he held. Her little body fit neatly on his forearm, head dwarfed by his cradling hand. She had his blue eyes but her mother's dimpled chin. He couldn't wait for Abigail to recover so he could show her.

At times, it felt as though his heart would burst out of his chest for all its overwhelming fullness. He had a daughter, beautiful and healthy. He had a daughter and yet another kind of love he'd never dared to imagine.

Whatever misgivings the community had about them were a thing of the past. Their house was stuffed to the brim with gifts from well wishers, including the comfortable chair Billy sat in with the baby. She was long asleep and though he could put her down in the crib, he preferred holding her.

"Billy?" Abigail's voice cracked through the silence, hoarse and broken but relentlessly beautiful to Billy's ear.

"I'm here." He slid to her side and used his free arm to help her sit up. Her skin felt cool and soft, no traces of fever and healthy in color. "You had us worried."

Abigail's attention locked onto the baby. She couldn't seem to say anything except, "Oh."

"Here." He shifted to pass the baby into her waiting arms. "She's been waiting for you."

Her eyes filled with tears as she met their daughter for the first time. Knowing she needed water and food, Billy tore himself from the moment to gather a small plate from the myriad offerings in their kitchen.

Back at the bedroom door, Billy stopped and let himself enjoy the sight of his wife holding his daughter, smiling and sniffling.

"How long have I been asleep? She must be hungry." Abigail sniffed at the air. A plethora of food filled their home with the scent of fresh bread, roasted meat, vegetables, and more. "I'm starving."

"Two days, off and on." Billy set her plate within reach and offered her a drink of cool water.

Abigail hummed in thought and brushed her fingers across their baby's downy soft hair. So far, the color was indeterminate. Billy thought she make take his coloring, but her hair was just dark enough to leave the matter up to question.

"Who's been nursing her?"

"Maritza, she lives in the village and just had one of her own. When she's not here, they've kept us supplied with goat's milk."

"Maritza, is she the one who helped?"

The baby mewled, blinking her large eyes up at Abigail.

"I believe she was there, though I hardly remember anyone except you and Paola, the midwife."

She asked her questions and he readily answered, but she was in another world, enraptured by their daughter. He knew the feeling.

A frown creased Abigail's pretty brow again. "Did you already name her?"

Billy bit back a snort. "Without you? Never."

"I was thinking," Abigail shifted the baby to rest against her propped up knees, wincing a little with the motion, "Grace Elizabeth Gates."

"Grace?" Billy felt the name down to his heart. "That was my mother's name."

Abigail leaned into him. "You told me."

Warmth chased away the edges of his surprise. "You want to name her after my mother. Is Elizabeth…?"

Every exposed inch of Abigail's exposed skin colored. "Elizabeth was a dear friend."

"A dear friend?" Billy considered the statement, then sighed. "Abigail, are you suggesting we name our daughter after my mother and a prostitute?"

With the baby resting against her legs, Abigail had a free hand to smack him in the chest. "Lizzie was a great friend to me, after I won her over. Besides, she was strong and survived everything they threw at her. I can hardly think of a better namesake."

Billy couldn't help but accept her logic. "Fine, so long as we never tell her what Lizzie did for a living."

"Only the good things."

It didn't take much to appreciate their change of fortune. From baby Grace to the peaceful life and friendships they'd cultivated, if purely by circumstance. He owed the men of the village a drink and cigar session he'd avoided until Abigail recovered. He had a small but loyal crew that poised to grow with these newfound relationships.

Most important of all, he had Abigail, and now Grace. They made a family, a real family, like the one he'd been stolen from so long ago.

"Yes," he took her lips in a slow, gentle kiss, "only good things for us from here on out."


End file.
